


Between Me and My Lord and Kin

by Chash



Series: Lady Knight [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Tortall Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7015291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Clarke wasn't expecting her first assignment as a knight to be taking command of a refugee camp. It's not exactly what she had in mind, when she became a knight. Bellamy Blake, refugee tailor and pain in her ass, wasn't what she had in mind either. </p><p>In a good way, as it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Me and My Lord and Kin

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently listening to Lady Knight on Audible and really, really wanted Clarke and Bellamy co-leading a refugee camp. So I really just took the plot of Lady Knight, both because I like it and because I'm lazy. Also because I'm lazy, I kept some number of the canon names (we're still in Tortall, etc). Hopefully it all makes sense! If not, then it doesn't.

Clarke of Griffinstone hadn't grown up dreaming of being a knight. Part of the problem is that she hadn't grown up dreaming of being _anything_ ; she has some healing gift, from her mother, and she wouldn't make a bad wife either, she knows. She's pretty enough, dainty, talented in ways that would make her a good match for most lords. It doesn't sound like the worst future, but it doesn't sound particularly exciting either. Her parents have a better marriage than many nobles, perfectly civil, with her father home most of the time and her mother kept busy with her gift. And for all she liked her brother's stories of knight training, that hadn't particularly appealed to her either.

And then Wells says, "Of course you can't be a knight. If you're a knight, I can't marry you."

She hadn't even been saying it seriously, just listing off options for the future, but the statement makes her bristle. "Who says I want to marry you?"

"I'm a prince," says Wells. "Everyone wants to marry a prince. Every noblewoman--"

"Well, I don't," she snaps. "I don't want to marry you."

It wouldn't be _bad_ , being married to Wells. He's her best friend, and she likes him. But she'd like to marry someone she really _wants_ to marry, and that's not him.

"I don't want to marry you either," he says, petulant. "But Father says it's a done deal. Since before we were born."

"Not if I'm a knight," she says. "You just said."

"Father says no one will marry a lady knight. Which isn't true. Lady Anya is married. But he'd never let _me_ marry a knight."

"Then I'll be a knight," Clarke decides, with all the conviction of seven years old. "And then no one will make me marry anyone. Besides, you're going to be a knight, aren't you?"

"I am," says Well, sounding a little dubious.

"So I will too. We'll do it together."

He makes a face. "Wouldn't it be easier to just get married?"

"No, you're right," she says, as if he'd been proposing an idea instead of arguing against it. "I wouldn't want to marry anyone who wouldn't marry a lady knight. So if I'm a lady knight, I can be sure I never will."

She tells her brother Roan the next week, and he laughs. He's really only her _half_ brother, eleven years older than she is, from her father's first marriage, but he treats her like a real sister, so far as she knows. He's only just become a full knight, and she thinks she could do what he does. She's always done well in fights with Wells or the other boys, more because she's smart and ruthless than because she's strong. She's a good rider and a decent archer. And it sounds more interesting than anything else she might do.

"Have you told your mother yet?" asks Roan.

"Not yet. I want to get better first. She's not going to like it--" He snorts, which she assumes means he agrees. "So I should practice and make sure I'm not fit for marriage either way."

"So, by the time you tell her, she'll have to agree?"

"You don't think it's a good idea?"

Roan ruffles her hair. "I think you're a gods-blessed terror," he says. "But if that's what you want, it's probably the way to get it."

"Good. So you'll teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"Whatever I need to learn. Exercises. What did you do to prepare to be a knight?"

"Very little, but I never take anything as seriously as you do." But he smiles. "I can teach you some exercises, if you're sure. And even if you're not, there's no harm in becoming a better fighter, is there?"

"I'm sure," she says. As soon as she thought of it, she was sure. _Lady Knight Clarke of Griffinstone_. She much prefers that title to just Lady Clarke. Besides, she'd like to learn to fight, to defend her people with more than just her wits.

"Then, come along," says Roan. "Let's see what we can teach you."

She tells her mother when she's eight, and it takes her the next two years to convince Lady Abigail that her daughter can be a knight. But in the end, she assents, as Clarke knew she would.

She's going to be a great knight. She won't let anyone stop her.

*

Bellamy Blake wouldn't have minded being a knight, if he'd been born a noble. He thought of entering the military, but he would have had to leave his sister, and that he wouldn't do. If it had just been her and Ma, he could have done it, but every other week Ma has a new man, and Bellamy doesn't trust her taste. He wouldn't leave his sister alone in such an uncertain household, even if he could have made more coin as a soldier. He works mending seams and making dresses with Ma, and when she passes, he takes over the shop, smooth and natural. It's alarming, honestly, how easy it is to go on without her, and it twists his guts, knowing how little his own mother mattered to his life.

He's twenty when the war comes, and twenty-two when he has to leave his home for it. He and Octavia take what they can carry and follow the soldiers to a refugee camp that's little more than green wood and greener soldiers.

"I could have defended home better than I can defend this," he tells Octavia, and she snorts.

"You don't have to tell me. I know."

At thirteen, his sister is fierce and strong, ready to take on the world. If he's honest, he already doesn't know what to do with her, and it will only get worse as she gets older. There aren't so many opportunities for lowborn girls, and she won't like any of them.

But first they have to survive the war; it's considerate of Scanra to give him something else to worry about.

"We'd better listen to them for now," he says, and even means it. The soldier in charge didn't impress him, a harsh man named Tristan who seemed to think refugees were to blame, for being forced from their homes, but his second, Pike, seems focused on survival, and less inclined to turn the whip on his own people. And either way, they'll be getting knights to take command soon, nobles with their own stupid opinions. Bellamy sees no point in developing grudges against temporary masters, when permanent ones will arrive soon and give him plenty to hate.

"When do we stop listening to them?"

"When they stop keeping us alive and safe," he says. "Seriously, O. Follow the duty rosters and try to keep a low profile. The last thing you want is a noble with a grudge against you."

"I will if you will," his sister mutters, and it's more than he expected.

"Deal," he says, and offers his hand. 

"Deal," she agrees.

It seems so safe; he doesn't want any trouble. He doesn't want to catch anyone's attention. He just wants to keep himself and his sister alive.

But then their commander is a _kid_.

He'll admit he doesn't make a good first impression; he's weary and sore from a day doing carpentry, and all he wants to do is eat and go to sleep, and the boy with the horse is blocking his way.

"Tell your master not to let his horse just graze anywhere," he grumbles. "This is a working camp, people need to get through."

He's never seen a noble tending their own mount, and that's his excuse for not realizing. 

"Excuse me?" asks the boy. He's so young his voice hasn't dropped yet. 

"I need to get through. Get out of the way."

His stomach sinks as the boy stands and turns. The traveling cloak obscured his view of the armor--no servant's armor, not even a squire's--and the slight build and high voice he assumed indicated a child actually indicated a _woman_.

She's not Lady Anya, the realm's first female knight. Which makes her Lady Clarke of Griffinstone. She has the healing gift, and she's known for her cunning as much as anything, a strong tactician if not a mighty warrior. Octavia's never been as impressed with her as she is with Anya, but he's still heard plenty about both of them from her.

He opens his mouth to--what, grovel? Lady Clarke is a newly made knight, and he has no idea what she's doing here, unless she's to command them, which seems cruel, even for a refugee camp. She's _eighteen_. 

Before he can make it worse, a boy he didn't notice says, "I found the shoe, my lady!"

"Thank you," she says, not taking her eyes off Bellamy. "As you may have gathered, my horse threw a shoe, and I didn't want to risk injuring her in case it was underfoot. I apologize for inconveniencing you, Master--"

Her voice is cool and calm, huskier than he expected; if she's going to have him whipped for impertinence, she'll at least be polite about it. 

"Bellamy Blake, my lady. I apologize for--"

"I believe you should be able to get by, Master Blake. I'm sure you have duties to attend to."

The condescension in her tone makes his jaw clench, but she's a noble, and he was rude to her first. It would have been rude if she _was_ the serving boy he assumed she was, and she'd be within her rights to put him in the stocks, given her station.

"Thank you, my lady," he says, with his best bow. He's had very little actual interaction with the nobility; they had a lord, of course, but all he did was tax them and not provide enough food in harsh winters. 

If his first encounter with Lady Clarke is any indication, it doesn't look like he'll do well with it.

He gets through the gate and to the mess hall without further incident, and sinks onto the bench next to Octavia with his food. "We've got a lady knight," he tells his sister in low tones.

Of course, she's thrilled. "Which one?"

"Lady Clarke. Sorry."

"Sorry? She's still a _lady knight_. How do you know? I haven't heard anything."

He makes a face. "I saw her. Told her to get her horse out of my way."

"You're lucky you didn't get flogged."

"I'll thank all the gods in my prayers tonight." He stabs his spoon into his stew, more vicious than necessary. "What are they thinking, sending a first-year knight to lead us?"

"She might not be leading," Octavia points out. "Maybe there's another knight to lead us." Her grin is sudden and sharp, and it makes him feel better. The refugee camp is awful and he hates it, but at least his sister is still in good spirits. "You better hope she's not in charge."

"If it's not her, it's some other noble," he says. "They're all the same."

And when he says it, he really does believe it.

*

Clarke's first assignment isn't what she expected. 

"At least you have a first assignment," Wells said, and Clarke winced on his behalf. As the only heir to the throne, he was kept even farther from the front lines than she was, his life more valuable than his service, and she can't blame him for being resentful. 

But standing in front of the mess hall, looking out over the sea of unfamiliar and hostile faces, she thinks maybe being kept safe at home would be an improvement over this.

She spots Master Blake, the only familiar face in the crowd, leaning in to murmur something to a girl next to him. She's too old to be his daughter and too young to be his wife, so Clarke assumes it's his sister. As people to know go, he's not much good; he's disrespectful to those he considers beneath him and disdainful of those born above him. The latter, she understands, but the former she can't condone.

"Quiet!" yells Corporal Pike. "The Lady Knight would address you."

Clarke winces, glances at her companions. She likes Nathan and Monty, friends as well as year mates, but she has no idea how the three of them are possibly going to handle this many people. They have soldiers to help defend them, but--it's a lot of responsibility. Clarke's a decent leader, but she's never lead _people_ before, only knights and soldiers. Taking care of refugees, people like Master Blake who have been taken out of their homes and thrown into a fort that probably doesn't feel much safer, is unknown territory for her.

She can't blame them for being wary and irritable.

"I won't take long," Clarke says, standing and giving everyone a smile. She had told Pike she'd wait until the end of the meal, but apparently he felt it should be sooner. "And don't stop eating on my account. I just wanted to introduce myself and my companions. My name is Clarke of Griffinstone, and I'll be taking command of this camp." There's a murmuring, and she holds up her hand. "I know, I know. I wasn't expecting it either," she says, with a small smile, and that gets some scattered laughs. Master Blake's sister elbows him, and he smiles at her, leaning in to say something else. "I won't be alone. I have some healing gift, but that won't be my primary responsibility. Sir Monty of Greenleaf is to be our healer, and Sir Nathan of Millerton will command our troops. For day-to-day issues, you're stuck with me. But make no mistake, _I_ am in charge here. If you're upset with your treatment, you will come to me. If you're upset with Nathan, you will come to me. If you're upset with Monty--I don't think anyone has ever been upset with Monty, so please come to me. I'll be very interested to hear what he possibly did." Monty ducks his head, which gets another laugh, and Clarke smiles. "If you take issue with me," she says, speaking directly to Master Blake now, "you will have to take it up with my lord, Sir Marcus of Kane, in Fort Arcadia. You may write to him at any time and I will pass along any messages. In the meantime, I'll begin work on duty rosters tomorrow, and getting to know all of you and the camp. But for now, I'm hungry."

She sits again, and conversation begins after only a second. She's sure about half of them are talking about how young she is and the other half how female she is, but that's unavoidable. She’s used to such talk by now, and she’s learned the best way to deal with it is to just do her work well. Luckily, she’s good at her work.

"That wasn’t too bad a speech," Monty says, soft. "Way better than I expected."

"I've seen a lot of speeches given," she says. "And it's not like I don't know we're young and inexperienced. It seems stupid to pretend we're not."

"Speak for yourself," Nate says. "They're lucky to have me."

"You're a gift," Clarke agrees, absent, looking out over the sea of tired, malnourished faces. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

“Don’t say that yet," says Monty. "Give it a day or two. Just so we have the full scope of it."

"Yes," she agrees. "That sounds right."

No less than twenty people complain to her before the meal is over. She's told she's too green (possibly), too small (no), too female (absolutely not), and too--well, words fail some of them, as if everything about her is just unthinkable. And for some of them, it certainly is.

She's about ready to start fighting people in single combat, if it will make them feel better, when Master Blake approaches. Or, rather, the girl Clarke takes to be his sister approaches, with her brother flanking her. Clarke puts her at somewhere between eleven and fourteen, skinny and awkward, like she's recently had a growth spurt, on top of not having enough to eat. She's paler than her brother, but her eyes are bright, and admiration is written all over her face.

"Can you teach me to fight?" she asks.

"Mithros, O," says Master Blake. "I told you not to start with that." He studies Clarke for a long minute, face unreadable. "My apologies again for earlier, Lady Knight," he finally says. "And for my sister's rudeness. Introduce yourself properly before you start asking favors, O."

The girl, O, drops into a passable curtsy. "It's an honor to meet you, my lady. I'm Octavia Blake."

"Close enough," says Master Blake, with undeniable warmth. For his sister.

"But really, are you going to teach us to fight?" Octavia asks, and Clarke bites back on her smile.

"That's one of my duties, yes," Clarke says. "If you want to learn to fight, we'll teach you. And you," she adds, to Master Blake. "You probably won't get a choice."

"I don't want one," he says. "I'm decent with a crossbow, but I'd like to get better. And I wouldn’t mind picking up some other weapons, if you’re offering."

"Crossbow?" Clarke asks, surprised. It's not a skill she would have expected from him. "May I ask what it is that you do, Master Blake?"

"Right now, whatever they tell me." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm a tailor by trade, my lady. Less use for that here, so I've been on construction duty." He pauses, and then adds, "I did a lot of odd jobs before our mother passed and left me the store, so the work isn't bad for me. I have experience with it."

Clarke feels herself relaxing as they talk; even if all Blake is doing is trying to get on her good side, it's a welcome change from everyone telling her how she's going to fail. And his sister is genuinely thrilled to have her. That's not nothing.

And then Blake feels comfortable enough to say, "This is your first assignment, huh?" and all the tension floods back into her.

"Yes," she snaps.

But his tone is mild. "Good luck with that."

She deflates. "Thanks," she says. "Appreciated."

The next morning starts off poorly. As always, she begins the day with training exercises, and, unfortunately, she has an audience. It's not a surprise, but it bothers her a little. Clarke's not a natural fighter; she's had to work hard to get to the level of expertise she has, and she has to practice harder than most of her friends. A noble boy who wants to be a knight despite not being a great warrior doesn't draw any attention; plenty of boys became knights out of a lack of anything else to do. But Clarke's the first female knight since Lady Anya, and the first to be _openly_ female, unlike the lady, who hid her sex until she earned her shield. The scrutiny on her has always been greater, and she doesn't love having people watching her as she goes through her morning exercises, always her worst, makes her antsy.

Octavia Blake shows up after half an hour, with a stick that will serve well enough as a staff for the purposes of exercise. Clarke's glad to not see her brother with her; the elder Blake still makes her antsy. She can't decide what he thinks of her, and she doesn't like not knowing people's opinions of her, when most wear them on their sleeves. And she's not sure her workout routine would improve his opinion.

His sister, on the other hand, watches with rapt interest, eyes mapping each move Clarke makes, until she has enough of a hang of it to stand and try some of the movements herself. She's smoother than Clarke is with them after only a few repetitions, which is enough to have her irritable going into breakfast, and things get worse from there. She and Monty stayed up half the night figuring out work rosters, trying to be as fair as possible, but everyone's got a complaint, from _I don't want to work latrine duty_ to _Dax isn't good enough to work on carpentry, we'll all die if he's responsible for putting together barracks_. After about an hour of listening to every little problem, Clarke sends everyone out and demands a written explanation of the complaint, which she thinks should bring the number of issues down to something manageable. At least until she has her head on straight.

She put herself on latrine duty first, and by the time it's done, she's exhausted and dirty and even more irritated than before.

It's the worst time to see Blake, so of course he shows up as she's on her way back to her room to bathe before dinner.

"Are those seriously your duty rosters?" he asks.

"Written complaints only, I don't care how much you hate your detail," she says, automatic. "If you'll excuse me, I have--"

"You're going to have a riot," he says, and Clarke stops to look at him. The irritation on his face is genuine, but there’s concern too. 

She doesn’t sigh, but it’s close. "Can you write down why I'm going to have a riot, or do you have to explain in person?"

He crosses his arms over his chest. "That's it?"

"Master Blake, I have had an entire day of people telling me why the entire camp is on the verge of ruin because they don't want to get splinters doing spear training. Unless you have a more compelling argument, I have no interest in hearing it. And if you do have a more compelling argument, I assume you'll be able to put it down on paper. You're young enough you must have had schooling, it was the law, so you shouldn't have any trouble with the writing."

Blake's jaw twitches as he clenches his mouth shut, and Clarke feels a vindictive stab of pleasure as he reins in his response. 

"Yes, my lady," he says, finally. "I can write. Thank you for your help. I'll be sure to deliver it as soon as possible."

"Looking forward to it," Clarke mutters, once he's gone, and drags herself off to get clean. 

*

Part of Bellamy knows-- _knows_ \--it's unreasonable. Or, if not unreasonable, at least an overreaction. He's heard people grumbling about their work all day, even people who were doing the same things, happily, yesterday, because now an upstart girl who's no better than she ought to be came in and told them to do it. 

But the schedule is a mess, and it seems worth telling her. And with her digs around his illiteracy and her general haughtiness, he's going to do it _right_. Exhaustively, eloquently, and undeniably.

"I thought she was nice," Octavia remarks. "She let me watch her exercises."

"How magnanimous," he says, dry. "That's not doing anything special, O. You really thought she was going to chase you off?" He pauses. "Besides, of course she likes girls who want to learn to fight. That doesn't mean she's not the wrong person to lead here."

"And it's your job to tell her that? You think you'd do a better job?"

"Honestly? Yeah. And she told me to write a formal complaint if I had one. So I'm writing it."

He feels his sister lean over his shoulder. "You're already at two pages? Don't we need the paper for something more important?"

“This is important.”

"Hope you're telling that bitch to get back where she belongs," mutters one of their bunkmates, and Bellamy scowls. This is the problem with complaining about their new leader; he thinks she's a stuck-up noble who doesn't know what she's doing, but his reasonable concerns will get lost in a flood of bigotry and nonsense from people who just think she’s a stupid girl.

"I'm telling her you should be on latrine duty for the rest of time," he says. "Leave her alone. She's what we've got so we should make the best of it."

"So, you're going to try to fuck her?"

"Bright Mithros," Bellamy mutters. "Just shut up, Murphy. I'm busy."

He stays up far too late working on the letter and still doesn't finish it. He works on it every spare minute he has, breaking down all the problems he has with the way the camp has set up work duties, the way Tristan ignored everyone's skills and Lady Clarke is just keeping on with that. He argues against the shifts, the training routines, and the meal shifts, and he glares at the lady knight every time he sees her because it's easy to get angry at someone who's making him do so much extra work, all in the name of _helping her_.

Octavia points out that Lady Clarke isn't making him do anything, that he's the one who decided he had to prove himself, and he ignores her. He knows how nobles are; if Lady Clarke ignores him, he wants to feel sure she's in the wrong. He’s not going to do anything that will let her dismiss him out of hand.

He rewrites the entire thing on the fourth day, keeps the first copy for his own records, and matches up to the officers' table at dinner.

The other knights he doesn't have much of an impression of. He has archery training with Sir Monty, and he's as difficult to dislike as Clarke said he was, affable and laid back. Sir Nate is dry and sarcastic and generally always looks like he'd rather be asleep, which Bellamy approves of in spite of himself.

He assumes they both have bad qualities, and he just hasn't witnessed them yet.

"Here," he says, slamming the letter down on the table in front of Lady Clarke. 

She blinks at it, takes a second to finish her bite of venison and sip her cider. Sir Monty picks it up in the meantime, flips through. It's nine pages, with writing on both sides.

"Bright Mithros," Sir Monty says.

"What is it?" Lady Clarke asks.

"My formal complaint."

"Ah." She takes it from Sir Monty. "For me, or shall I present it directly to my lord at Fort Arcadia?"

"For you," he says, frowning. "I assume your lord doesn't care about our duty rosters."

To his annoyance, she seems pleased by that. "This is all about the duty rosters?"

"They're a mess."

Even stranger, she offers him a bright smile. She's quite pretty, honestly. He'd never seen her smile before. "Thank you, Master Blake. I look forward to reading this."

"You do?" he asks, before he can think better of it.

"I'm not happy with how the work details are going. I welcome your feedback." She puts it down next to her plate and starts on the letter right then and there, making him feel oddly exposed. Some part of him really had thought she'd just ignore it.

"You should go eat," Sir Monty says, with a smile. "She won't come up for air until she's done."

"Thank you," he says, out of a general lack of anything else to say. It's a dismissal, and he _is_ hungry.

When he sits with Octavia, she's smug. "I told you she wasn't so bad."

"What makes you say that?" he asks, reflexive.

"She's still reading your letter. She sent her servant to get a quill. I think she’s taking notes."

He risks a glance at the officer's table and sure enough, there she is, tapping the quill against her jaw, flipping through the pages. 

"Probably just making a list of all the things she'll have me beaten for daring to say," he mutters, but he finds he doesn't really believe it.

After the meal, as he's leaving, the lady calls, "Master Blake!"

"This is when she has me flogged," he hisses at Octavia, and his sister shoves him as he goes.

"My lady?" he asks.

"What are you doing now?"

"Nothing, my lady," he says. It sounds odd, maybe a little defensive, so he adds, "I was going to go read. I don't have evening duties."

"I'm not quite done with this, but will you come to my quarters? I want to talk about it when I'm done. I have books," she adds, like she's trying to entice him. "You're welcome to read them."

"Whatever you need, my lady," he says, and she smiles.

"Your sister can join us, if you don't want to leave her alone."

The offer surprises him, especially combined with her expression, open and friendly. They've been glaring at each other for days; he didn't expect his nine-page diatribe on all the things she's doing wrong to improve the situation.

"She's fine."

"Good. It's this way."

It's not a surprise that the lady knight has a room of her own; given she jerks her head to the door across from hers and says it's Monty and Nate's, he assumes it's because of her sex as much as her rank. Her reputation is bad enough without openly rooming with men.

The quarters themselves aren't that much better than his own, except that she has more room. She's decorated a little, put some paintings and tapestries, arranged pillows on the bed. It doesn’t look like a home, but it looks like somewhere someone is planning to settle in. There’s a trunk in the corner, and she opens it and gestures him over with a smile.

"I don't have many books, and they're mostly histories of famous battles or philosophy tomes from Wells. But feel free to look through and take whatever you'd like." She looks around the room, frowning. "Do you mind taking the chair? I'd offer you the desk, but I'm planning to write and I assume you're not."

Even the offer surprises him, the idea that she's _asking_. He almost wants to insist on taking the desk, just to see if she'll give it to him, but it makes much more sense for him to have the chair. 

"No, that's fine," he says. "Thank you, my lady," he adds, belatedly. It's such a fucking _pain_ , all the _my ladies_ and politeness and bowing, but this is what nobles expect. He thinks it's bullshit, but not so much that it's worth getting whipped over. He'll try to remember to be polite, and he's pretty sure she won't be upset if he's not the exact correct kind of polite.

Which is nice too.

She wasn't lying when she said she didn't have many books, but they're nicer than his, with real binding instead of pages stitched together. There's a history of the first Immortals War, and he takes it, settling into the chair to read. He's expecting to be unable to concentrate with her so close, to say nothing of the awareness that she's reading his letter, but the book is engaging and it's strangely--pleasant. Sitting in the lady's rooms, reading while she works. 

It's probably just that it's been so long since he had this much privacy. Only two people in a room feels like such a luxury.

He's not sure how long she's been trying to get his attention when she finally comes and actually taps the book in his hands. Her smiles is bright and amused, and he returns it sheepishly.

"Good?" she asks.

"Yes. Sorry."

"It's fine. You can borrow it, if you'd like."

He blinks down at the volume. It would probably cost him a year's profits, if not more. "I can?"

"Sure." She wets her lips, goes back to sit at the desk. She's watching him like she's trying to solve a puzzle, and he doesn't have any idea what it could be. As far as he's concerned, he's an open book. "I think we got off on the wrong foot," she finally says.

"Oh?"

"I'm not--I was in a terrible mood the first few times I saw you. Between being assigned here, my horse throwing his shoe, and--everything else, you never seemed to get me at my best."

"What's your best?" he asks, before he can stop himself, but she actually smiles, even laughs softly.

"Good question. Let me know if you find out."

It's the last answer he expected, and he runs his fingers over the binding of the book, unable to look her in the eye. "I've been in a bad mood since I got here too."

"I don't blame you." She glances behind her. "Thank you. There's a lot of good advice in your letter. And a great deal of sarcasm and poorly concealed bitterness, but I don't blame you for that either."

"So, you didn't bring me here to flog me."

"I don't believe in flogging, no." She looks away, like she's embarrassed. "I thought Lord Marcus wanted me away from the fighting, sending me here. He and my mother are old friends, and--she agreed to my becoming a knight, but I think she wanted me to be a peacetime knight. Every time I saw her after the war started, she tried to talk me out of it. So when he told me I was to command a refugee camp, I assumed it was an easy assignment to keep me safe." She bites her lip on a smile. "He set me straight quickly."

"Yeah?"

"For one thing, it's far from an easy assignment. And for another, we're going to be in danger. We already have injuries to treat, and we’ll only get more. Which is why--” She huffs. “I've been working in the infirmary when I'm not doing work duty, I've barely had time to review anything. I assumed Tristan had at least taken a decent census, but he really was useless, wasn't he?"

He almost smiles. "As far as I could tell. You know we've got another blacksmith? Raven Reyes. She has the gift for working with metal and everything. Tristan just didn't believe her. She's on kitchen duty because she says if you don't believe a woman can be a blacksmith, you don't deserve her."

"I saw in your report," she says. "I assume she was one of women I told to write me a letter."

"It's probably a good idea," he admits, grudging. "Given all the things I've heard people say about you, I wouldn't want to take feedback either."

"I'm hoping it'll calm down once everyone gets used to me. But--this is really helpful. _You'd_ be helpful, if you're willing."

"Willing to what?"

"I need to redo the entire duty roster, for a start," she says. "You seem to know everyone pretty well. I could--I don't know these people yet, but they're my people. I have to figure out what they need. You know, and you care about making sure they get it. So--any ideas you have, I'm all ears."

Bellamy stares at her. "Just like that?" he finally asks.

"Just like that. It's not like Monty and Nate know any better." When she bites her lip, it feels like a key, somehow. Like he's finally understanding this woman. It's not a surprise when she says, "I’m planning to keep these people alive and safe, and you can help. I hope you will."

His own mouth is dry. This is a _noble_ , and she's treating him like--a resource. Someone valuable. Because he can help her take care of other commoners. "Yeah," he says. "Whatever you need."

"Great. Put that book away and come help me review the rosters." Her smile now is almost shy. "Like I said, you can still borrow it."

"Sure," he says. "Let's see what we can do."

*

Bellamy Blake is wasted as a tailor.

Clarke's sure he's good at it, because she's found that Bellamy doesn't do things poorly. He's smart and dedicated, and she's sure he does very well, making and repairing clothing. He's probably the best tailor in his town. He's probably the best tailor in Tortall.

But he'd do so much better as-- _someone_. He has so much to offer, and she’s grateful to have his help, but--it feels like he should have been doing these things sooner.

To start, they fix the scheduling. Tristan, Bellamy told her, believed that if commoners weren't kept constantly busy, they'd be getting into trouble, which explained both the punishing schedules and the general feeling of exhaustion among everyone in the camp, herself included. Bellamy gets the refugees to tell him their work skills and Clarke does the same for combat, and between the two of them, they've got a much better work and training regimen figured out in three days flat. 

She's almost disappointed it goes so quickly, because she doesn't know if she'll have more need for him. It's nice to have an ally, and she enjoys his company. Once he relaxes around her, she finds he has a wry wit and a nice smile, and spending time with him is one of her favorite things.

As it turns out, she needn't have worried. There's always some crisis going on that she needs to deal with, and Bellamy is always--well, he's not always there, but he's always available, and his input always seems worth soliciting. He gets along well with Nate, because they're both grumpy and sarcastic, and Monty, because everyone gets along with Monty. There's still distance, of course, because he's a commoner and he knows it, and it twists her up. Of course she doesn't _care_ , but she can't pretend it doesn't matter.

And then, a week after they finish the duty rosters, he's in her quarters, ostensibly to return a book but mostly because she told him she had wine, and he says, "Did you know people feel more comfortable complaining to me than to you?" 

"I hadn't thought about it, but it doesn't surprise me. I'm still officially taking written complaints only." She takes a sip of her wine. "What are they complaining about?"

"Well, obviously, you're not fit to be our leader and I'm supposed to be poisoning you, putting in your place, or driving you out, or something. Maybe all of the above. I don't really pay that much attention."

It makes her heart swell, how completely dismissive he sounds. She hasn't won over everyone yet, but she will. And Bellamy, at least, is on her side. "Obviously," she agrees.

He sips his own wine. "There are some legitimate concerns, too. A lot of people think we're spending too long on weapons training, when we should be working on the walls."

It's not a surprise. Walls make people feel safe. After the first attack, they'll feel differently, she's sure. Knowing what to do with a weapon feels even safer. "What do you think?"

"I never mind learning a new skill," he says. "But the walls aren't great."

"No." When she closes her eyes, she can still hear the Chamber of the Ordeal, its smooth, detached voice, telling her there's a problem. That she must fix it. "Have you heard about the killing devices?"

"Rumors. Are they real?"

"They're real," Clarke says. "I served with the King's Own when I was a squire. We took out a couple. They don't care about walls. I don't know if they're coming out here, but--if they are, we need to be ready. And I don't know how to make anyone ready for them, except training."

He nudges her shoulder. "I hear they're nine feet tall and made of bones and metal."

"Yeah, they are."

"Shit," he says, and it makes her laugh, even though she's remembering. She saw two, serving with the King’s Own, these nightmare machines made of blades and fear. "I thought they were exaggerating."

"They're as bad as you've heard, honestly. Maybe worse."

"So how do you kill them?"

"You need to pierce the head. You're learning to use an axe, right?"

"Yeah."

"Axe will do it."

"You really think they'll come here?"

"I think it's stupid to assume they won't."

"Mithros, you're cheerful company, my lady."

"Clarke," she says. She's stopped calling him _Master Blake_. It only seems fair.

"What?"

"My name's Clarke. I'm not your lady. I'm--just trying to keep everyone alive. The same as you. So you can stop calling me _my lady_. I don't care." 

He looks dubious, so she takes his wine and pours half of it into her cup, which makes him laugh. "What was that for?"

"It's what I'd do to any friend who was drinking too slowly," she tells him. "So--now we're friends."

His true smiles are rare, so far, and he tends to duck his head on them, like he doesn't want anyone to see. Which is a shame, because Clarke likes them. "Is that how the nobility does it?"

"Oh, no. The way the nobility does it is much worse."

"Thanks for sparing me then." He takes a drink and adds, "Clarke," with care, as if he still thinks it might be a trick.

"Any time, Bellamy."

And that does seem to win him over. He doesn't wait for excuses, like returning her books or talking about the camp, to spend time with her. He'll chat with her when he sees her, walk with her even when he's not going the same way she is. When he has concerns, he raises them, and she listens, and when she has concerns, she gets his advice.

They're talking about possible additions for the kitchen when the sentry blows the horn, two short bursts that mean enemies are coming.

"Fuck," says Bellamy.

Clarke bites back a smile, even as her heart picks up. "Archer, right? On the wall."

"I've got my axe, too. Go for the head, right?"

"Hope it's just humans," she says.

"But if it's not."

"Then, yeah, go for the head." She gives him a tight smile. "I'm getting my horse. Don't get killed."

"Same to you."

Nate's already waiting for her, but he's smiling. "Just humans," he says. He's never faced one of the killing devices, but he's heard stories. Clarke has nightmares sometimes, too, about them and the man who makes them, about what the chamber told her, and Nate heard her talking in her sleep. He knows more than most do, about how bad they are. "I think it'll be good for them."

"How?"

He shrugs. "It's awful, but--people don't always believe they're in danger. They'll probably pay more attention to their training once they realize we're actually under attack."

"I'm glad you found a bright side to all this."

"Where's Bellamy?"

"With Monty and the archers. Why?"

Nate smirks. "I didn't think you'd let him out of your sight."

"He doesn't have a horse and can't ride," she says. "He's much safer out of my sight." She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. "Ready?"

"Ready."

The battle is short and fairly decisive; Clarke rides on the front lines because she has the most experience and doesn't want anyone thinking she's afraid, but Nate isn't generally wrong about where she’d like to be. She'd do the most good on the battlements, where she can command and see everything. Next time, she'll stay there.

But for now her people need to know she can fight.

"Think they're testing us out?" Nate asks. “The Scanrans.”

"Probably." She shakes her head. "Must be nice to have so many people to spare."

He snorts. "Must be nice to not give a shit if anyone lives or dies, you mean."

She shakes her head, smiling a little with the absurdity of it. "I can't even imagine."

"Yeah, I know you can't. We've got injured, get to the infirmary. I'll check the perimeter, make sure we're clear."

"Thanks." The smile she offers him is genuine. "You did good, Nate."

"That was nothing. Tell me that when the killing devices get here."

"I'm going to stop talking to you, it's depressing. Take the compliment, Millerton."

He claps her on the back. "You're not so bad yourself, Griffinstone."

Bellamy's already in the infirmary, with a cut from an arrow on his shoulder. "I told Monty it wasn't a big deal," he says. "I could have bandaged it myself if the angle wasn't so weird."

"Shut up, Bellamy," she says, fingers ghosting over his arm. "That's what we're here for." It won't take much of her gift, and there aren't so many injured. And--it's _Bellamy_. The magic is flowing out of her before she even quite knows it. "How was your first battle?"

"Got distracted watching you," he says. "I always forget you can fight."

"Thanks. If you ever get yourself killed watching me, I will come to the Black God's Realm and punch you in the face."

"Well, as long as you've got a plan." As always, his grin makes her heart speed up. "I'm not going anywhere, Clarke."

*

"You're sure she won't mind?" Bellamy asks. It's been two days since their first attack, and his sister has talked him into tagging along to Clarke's morning training, because he thinks he could know more about more weapons, and Octavia says the practice is a good way to start the morning.

It sounds like a good way to him too, but it also feels a little disrespectful. Octavia and some of the other children do the training with her, but none of the adults do. It feels like he's imposing on her private time.

"If she does, she'll just tell you to leave," Octavia says, unconcerned. "Right? She doesn’t care about being rude to you."

"Yeah, but--" He stops, because he actually sees Clarke in the courtyard, stretching, and he suddenly can't breathe.

In general, when Bellamy so much as thinks about the fact that Clarke is lovely--and interesting, and smart, and excellent company--he reminds himself of the time she told him about why she became a knight. She tells it as nothing more than an amusing anecdote, and doesn't seem to realize that it involves the crown prince of Tortall, her betrothal to him, and her refusal to wed him. Clarke could have been the actual _queen_ of the _entire realm_ , and all that stopped it was that she was too stubborn to agree to marry the prince, and decided to become a knight to make sure the king wouldn't want her to.

Bellamy is a bastard who runs his mother’s store out of a lack of any better options. So he doesn't think Clarke is lovely, and he's never noticed the mole above her lip, or the way she bites the side of her mouth when she smiles, or how her hair falls into her face when she laughs.

He has never noticed any of that at all. Because he's a tailor, and she's a lady, and the only reason they know each other at all is that there's a war.

But he's also never actually seen her like this. She's not always in armor throughout the day, but she's--covered. She wears trousers and quilted tunics, and while her form is recognizable and undeniably female, he knew very few details about her body. Not that he'd really thought about it, or realized he was lacking them. She dressed as he'd expect a knight would, and that was that.

In her training clothes, she doesn't look any more like a _lady_ , but she's--defined. They're no more revealing than a gown would be, but he can't help letting his eyes take her in, quickly. Her light tunic is sleeveless and cut low, drawing in at her waist, and he doesn't let his eyes linger, but he's unavoidably and inescapably aware of the swell of her breasts, the curves of her body.

He knew she was beautiful, but it had been easy to not think about the path his hands would take if they ran up her sides, and now he can't think of anything else.

"I told Bell he could come, he's worried he couldn't," Octavia tells Clarke, oblivious to his reaction.

She brightens at the sight of him, smile wide and genuine, and it would only take him three steps to get to her, to wrap her up in his arms and taste the expression on her lips.

It's too early for him to see her; this was definitely a mistake.

"Apparently not worried enough he didn't," Clarke says, fond. "You want to try?"

"I'm not doing anything else before breakfast, right?" he asks. He can be normal about this. It's exercising; she's a teacher. She has other students. It’s fine.

"I thought you might sleep. Come on, I'll show you the basic movements before the rest of them get here."

And that’s not so difficult, standing next to her, letting her correct his stance. She's not bad at this, or if she is, that's endearing in its way too. She's not natural with children or with teaching, but she's figured out a tactic that works for her with them, and it’s sweet.

With him, she's Clarke, easy and teasing, smiling and telling him he should have started this twenty years ago he wanted to be good at it.

"When I was two?" he asks.

"Just if you wanted to be _good_."

"Well, I didn't, so it's fine."

The exercise itself is more punishing than he expected, using muscles he tends to ignore, apparently, and he's going to feel awful in a few hours, to say nothing of the next day. He's always taken pride in his physical fitness; he knows he's in better fighting shape than most of the other civilians, even those his own age. But Octavia blows him out of the water, and she's thirteen.

Clarke hands him a water skin. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Not at all." He glances at his sister. "It's because she's younger than me?"

Clarke's face clouds over. "No, it's because she's a born warrior. What are you going to do with her?"

"Fucked if I know," he says, and she laughs. "I've been worrying about it for years."

"She's thirteen, isn't she?"

"Yeah. Fourteen in eight months."

"I guess the Shang never came through your town. They would have taken her in a second."

"No," he says, and it makes him wince. The Shang warriors never even occurred to him, but--they would have taken her, he’s sure. They take men and women, lowborn and high, and teach them to fight. "Gods, I should have tracked them down, shouldn't I? I’m never going to figure out a good place for her.”

"Never say never," she says. "The Queen's Riders take commoners. She'd have to be fifteen, but she would do well there."

"In Corus," he says. It's not that he wants to keep his sister with him forever, it's just that he has trouble thinking about her so far away.

"I'm sure there are tailors in Corus," says Clarke, taking the water skin back from him and drinking herself.

"Better tailors than I am, certainly."

If he's honest, he's expecting her to defend his skills, which she's never seen. But instead, she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I think you're wasted as a tailor."

"I'd make an excellent lord," he says, light, but she snaps to attention.

"You would, you know. You'd be a good knight too, or a scholar. You'd do well in--" When she huffs out a breath, he realizes she's _angry_. "I assume you stopped your schooling as soon as you were able to. So you could work."

"Yeah," he says, taken off guard.

"A good lord would have recognized your potential and made sure he was taking advantage of it."

It still feels like he's trying to catch up with the conversation, like he missed some vital piece. "You have a lot of faith in how well I did in school." 

"I know you," she says, and when he lets himself look at her again he just sees--Clarke. This bright, strong, beautiful girl who seems so fond of him, somehow. 

He doesn't know how it happened, and he doesn't know what to say.

"I was really bad at math," he finally says, and she laughs.

"No one's perfect."

*

They get their first killing device the day before Clarke and Monty are bound to go check in with Lord Marcus at Arcadia. They kill it, but lose a soldier, and she can see how haunted her people are, how jumpy.

"I can't leave now," she says.

"You need to," says Nate. "You need to tell my lord what happened."

"And we need supplies," Monty adds.

"If he knows these things are coming, will he give us more soldiers?" Bellamy asks. He was the one who delivered the killing blow with his axe, and Clarke wants nothing more than to curl into his side, to make sure he's safe and whole, to comfort him and assure herself he's alive. To hold him close and not let go.

It's not her first crush; she's no blushing innocent. He's not even the worst person she could take to bed, if it comes to that. She'd stolen every moment she could with a Queen's Rider named Lexa on the great progress when she was a squire, but that felt different. Even if Lexa had the bluest blood in the realm, they couldn't have married, but they never needed to talk about it. It was temporary, and she treasured it, but they both knew what it would be: enjoyable while they were together, with no future at all.

She doesn't know what it says, that she can't imagine such a relationship with Bellamy. Taking him to bed and leaving him behind after is unthinkable.

"I don't think he has any soldiers to spare," she tells him, pulling herself back to the topic at hand. "He knew as well as we did that this was a possibility. Just because it's true now--" She sighs, looks at Bellamy. "What do you think the other refugees will think?"

He leans back, closes his eyes to think it over. "Honestly? We know you're supposed to leave. If you don't, it's going to make people think you're afraid, and that'll make them afraid. Not that anyone's going to be thrilled you're leaving," he adds. "But I think you should go." He turns his head to shoot her a lazy grin. "Honestly, you didn't even help that much with that thing. I did all the work."

Clarke flicks his head, which is the most she feels she can touch him safely. "Maybe I won't come back."

"Great, you're cramping my style." But his expression softens. "Just don't dawdle, okay? I’m sure their fort is nicer than ours, but you're stuck here."

"Two days," she says. "Just to get supplies and report to my lord."

"We'll be fine. I assume the Scanrans have better things to do than just throw killing devices at us all the time."

He's the last to leave that night, lingering to get another book from her, although she's quite sure he's read all of them. 

"Maybe my lord has some more books he'll loan me."

"Don't tell him you have time to read, then he won't think you're busy enough. If you have time to read, we don't need more soldiers."

"I don't have time to read. I'll tell him one of the civilians is such a pain, that's the only way I can keep him from driving me to drink with his complaints, and he'll--"

Bellamy snorts. "I meant it, just don't come back," he says, eyes twinkling. "We're better off without you."

"I'll be sure to tell my lord that too." She worries her lip. "Are you all right? Truly?"

"I'm fine," he says. His smile is so warm, and she still wants to step into his arms.

Maybe the time away will be good for her.

"I'm glad I got to see one. I hope I never see another one, but, you know. From a scholarly perspective, I'm glad I experienced it, so I can report later."

"How to Kill a Killing Device, by Bellamy Blake."

"I'd make a fortune, if I could get it out tomorrow." She can see his hand twitch, a moment’s hesitation, but when he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, the movement is sure. "See you in two days."

"You're not coming to morning exercises tomorrow?" she asks. "I'm still doing them."

He groans. "Fine, I'll see you tomorrow. Get some rest."

"You too."

To her surprise, he and her students aren't the only ones to see her off in the morning. Clarke has been letting her people get used to her at their own pace, and she hadn't quite realized how many had. They say goodbye to her in the same way Bellamy did, telling her that they'll be fine, asking her to bring more soldiers, making complaints as a cover to talk to her. Monroe, who's taken a shine to combat training for the women, gives her a list of weapons they could use, if Lord Marcus can't spare more men. Raven and Sinclair, their blacksmiths, want spare metal.

"We're checking out that--black thing," Raven says, making a face. "If I can figure out how it works, I can design things to fight it. Any metal you can get me would help."

"Everything I can carry."

Raven pauses. "And come back soon. Bellamy's going to be unbearable."

"I assume he'll go mad with power," Clarke agrees, grinning at her.

To her surprise, Raven rolls her eyes. "No, he'll just be worried until you're in his sight again. That's what he does."

"I'm sure you'll find something to keep him occupied. Maybe a puzzle."

Raven snorts. "Yeah, sure. Just get going, so you can come back. You're way better than the last one."

The compliment keeps her warm and content on the ride to Fort Arcadia, even as she's antsy too. It's hard to feel as if telling Lord Marcus that her people are hungry and being attacked is more important than being there to make sure her people are eating and safe. But getting the supplies helps, spare weapons and metal that Arcadia wasn't using, ones that they'll be able to use. And she can tell Lord Marcus, honestly, that it's doing well.

"Sir Tristan felt they were--a difficult group," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You aren't having the same trouble?"

"No," Clarke says. "I think any trouble I have is different."

That makes him laugh. "Fair enough. I have a letter for you from your mother. I assume you don't have anything for her."

"I barely have time to think, most nights," she admits. "But if you write to her, send her my regards. I'll try to have something for her the next time I’m here." 

She gets books for Bellamy too, a few from Jasper, Marcus's squire, that she thinks he'll enjoy. Adventure stories, not histories; she's looking forward to him reading them and having commentary on the lack of realism.

But the knot in her chest doesn't fully uncoil until they're back at the gates of Arcadia and Nate and Bellamy are there, waiting, watching them come in with smiles.

"It's nice to have people to come home to," Monty remarks, and Clarke can't help her smile.

It's more than two hours before she gets to actually talk to Bellamy, though, because everyone wants to talk to her. Roma wants advice on her spearwork; Mistress Cartwig has a baby coming and is worried about everything. John Murphy wants to complain about his work assignment, because he thought he was finally getting good in the kitchen. It actually sounds like he's genuinely upset, so she promises to review it and makes a mental note to consult Bellamy. He knows Murphy better than she does. 

It's more of the same after that, but they're all--not _real_ concerns, not like Bellamy's letter. But they're also not the kinds of complaints she got at first, about how she doesn't know anything and doesn't understand their needs. They're the complaints of people who show affection this way, and it's a language Clarke speaks.

Still, after most of a day of hard riding and two hours of audiences, she's ready to be done with everything.

"They missed you so much they missed dinner to talk to you," Bellamy remarks, and her eyes snap open. "You should be touched."

"Incredibly. Hi."

"Hey. I brought you food, since you missed dinner too."

"Thanks. It sounds like everything fell apart while I was gone."

"Basically, yeah. We can't survive without you."

"Any real problems?"

"I tried to run the morning exercises. According to Octavia, it was the worst thing she'd ever seen, and she took over. Other than that, no. Nothing bad."

"Good. I got you some books."

He grins, wide and bright, surprised. "Yeah? What did you tell your lord?"

"I got them from his squire."

"Probably safer." He goes over to root through her back, coming up with a book and slumping into a chair in her office with the ease of someone who does it every day. It makes something lodge in her throat, because--gods, what does she think she's going to do with him? The war is going to end, and she'll still be a knight, and he'll go home to be a tailor in Mechdale. Her mother may have accepted she won't make an ideal marriage, but she doesn't know what would Lady Abigail would say if she brought a bastard tailor back to Griffinstone and said she was marrying him.

Not that she's even sure he'd like to marry her, even if their situations weren't what they were. He likes her well enough, and they're friends, but--this isn't his life, and it's not hers either.

But she eats her dinner and he reads, and it feels so _nice_. She's back home, where she belongs, with her people to take care of and her friends at her side.

"I'm glad you're back," he remarks, soft, when her candle has nearly burned down.

"Yeah," she says. "Me too."

*

Just when Bellamy starts feeling comfortable in the camp, like he has a place and knows it, they get a new group of refugees.

It's not like they haven't gotten people in before, but it's never been a large group, just ten or twenty people at most, a family or three. There's been a brief adjustment period, but it's never felt like a real _change_. 

This group is over two hundred, and they're from Alph's Cove.

"What?" Clarke asks, when he swears under his breath.

"You know how some nobles like to look down on commoners?"

"I know."

"Mechdale--we're the commoners some other commoners look down on. Alph's Cove is larger, richer--more merchants and traders. They'll be less accustomed to work and they'll expect us to do everything." He offers her a tight smile. "I know tailor doesn't sound like one of the rougher trades, but it's--some of these people will have had _servants_. Almost all of us here have at least one practical skill. Plenty of them won't. And they won't like finding out they're expected to work."

"Charming." Clarke puts away her spyglass and offers him a smile. "Want to come say hello?"

And that's when he really realizes how much will change, because if he goes with her, it will undermine her. His people see her listening to him as an upside, a sign that she's not some stuck-up noble who thinks she's above them. The new group will probably assume he's fucking her to gain favors and she can't be taken seriously.

"You've got this," he says, making his voice easy. "I've got work detail to get to."

"Lucky you," she says, with a fond smile that he might have to talk to her about too. Not that--well, he thinks the Alph's Cove people are going to cause problems, and he's pretty sure some of the problems are going to be with him. It’s not bad for her to have friends, but it might be bad for him to be one of them.

He goes to talk to Nate about it, because Nate's a pretty good person to talk to. He's a noble, but a recent one, and like Clarke, he's atypical, as knights go. He's not _closer_ to Nate than he is to Clarke, but the idea of even raising the issue of what affect his friendship might have on Clarke's reputation to Clarke herself seems like dangerous territory.

Nate barely glances away from grooming his horse. "Let me guess, you're worried the new refugees won't like you."

It's nice to feel understood, anyway. The two of them might have gotten drunk the night Clarke and Monty were gone and had a heart-to-heart. It helped, in the sense that it's always nice to drink and complain with a friend.

"I know they won't like me, I'm worried they won't like Clarke."

"They’ll get used to her, just like you did," Nate says. He pauses. "Half of your people already think you're fucking her, it's not like that's going to be new either."

"No, but they think it says good things about her. That she's not too stuck up to like someone like me."

"That is what it says about her." He pauses in his care of the horse. "Look, she's not going to stop asking for your help, and you're not going to stop seeing her, so don't be stupid and act like you’re going to. It's not like she doesn't know there are rumors about the two of you. There have been rumors about her from when she started as a page, when she was _ten_. It's not new for her. But she likes you, and if you stop spending time with her, it'll hurt her. So don't be an idiot. Just talk to her."

It's the most he's ever heard Nate talk at once, and there's a moment where he just gapes before he recovers enough to say, "How long have you had that speech prepared?"

"Fucking _weeks_ ," says Nate. "You're not subtle."

"Thanks, asshole." He rubs his jaw. "But--honestly, you're right. Thanks."

"Like I said," says Nate. "I've been getting ready for this."

Before he gets a chance to mention it to Clarke, she does her typical dinner address to newcomers, and she mentions him, as easily as she ever has. "If you can't find me and have a concern, find Sir Nathan, Sir Monty, or Master Bellamy Blake. They're all authorized to speak on my behalf, and if they tell you something you don't like, don't expect me to tell you otherwise. If you have complaints about them, you can come to me, and if you have complaints about me, you're welcome to write to my lord Marcus of Fort Arcadia, or ride there yourself if you can’t wait that long. Otherwise, you'll be on the work rosters tomorrow. Welcome to Haven."

"She's getting pretty good at that speech," Octavia observes.

"Yeah," he agrees, but he’s not really listening. Most of his attention is on the other refugees; he knows a couple of them, from his trips to the larger city. For the most part, they look worn out and hungry, like everyone does when they arrive. But he recognizes Graham Porter, a merchant he got in a fight with at a tavern once, who’s shooting daggers at him. The man isn't going to just sit down, shut up, and eat.

Clarke can handle it. He knows she can. It just doesn't feel like the sort of thing she should have to handle, some stuck-up ass taking his grudge against Bellamy out on her.

Sure enough, Graham rises and approaches the officers’ table. "Why is Alph's Cove not represented on this council?" 

Clarke, who had resumed eating, gives him an even look. "Because you’ve just arrived and there is no council, Master--"

It reminds Bellamy of the first time he met her, when he mistook her cool, even manner for disdain. Really, she just doesn't tend to have an explosive temper, and she reacts to fury with icy calm.

He doubts Graham will like it any more than Bellamy himself did.

"Graham Porter. If we're expected to listen to a _tailor_ \--"

"This is a war camp, Master Porter. You're expected to listen to anyone who will keep you alive and safe. I consider it lucky that that's most people here. But yes, Master Blake has proved himself trustworthy. If anyone else does the same, I will add them to the list of those who can speak for me. It's not a council; it’s a practicality. I can't be everywhere at once. If you can't find me, present yourself to any of those men and they will help."

"Don’t worry, Graham! She'll take another lover soon enough, if you're so keen to be in the inner circle!" one of the other Alph's Cove men calls, and Clarke smiles.

"That reminds me, if anyone suggests again that anyone in this camp earned their position on their back, or on top of anyone else, again, I will put you in the stocks. Will that be all, Master Porter? My meal is getting cold."

There’s a moment when Bellamy thinks he’ll argue again, because he is that exact kind of stupid, but apparently there are limits to even Graham’s poor judgement. He says, “Thank you, my lady,” and returns to his seat, and when Bellamy catches Clarke’s eye, she just gives him a small, somewhat exasperated smile.

"That speech was new," Octavia remarks.

"I'm pretty sure she's been doing a variation since she started her training. But yeah. She's pretty good at it."

Despite his conversation with Nate--and his agreement with Nate--the arrival of the Alph's Cove refugees does change things. He still spends time with Clarke, still helps her with the work rosters, trains with her in the mornings, advises her whenever she wants. But he remembers that this is practicality. It's a war, and she's a leader. She's using her resources, and he's one of them. She can like him, enjoy his company even, but it's stupid of him to get attached. It's easier to remember that when other people are around, watching and thinking of all the worst reasons Clarke could trust him. It’s not the truth that he sees when he looks at himself through their eyes, but it is something true.

Then she gets hurt.

It's not as bad as it could be, nothing life-threatening, but he's the one closest to her, and when she staggers against him, it's like the bottom drops out of his world. Because--he doesn't have any idea what's going to happen after this war ends, but he can't just stop caring about her. It's stupid and irrational and she's a _noble_ , but she's _Clarke_ , and he knows with sudden clarity that he won't be able to simply give her up.

"Sorry," she says, pulling herself up off him and then staggering back. He puts his arm around her waist, steadying her until he can get her propped up against the wall. There's an arrow in her shoulder, and he's sure she'll survive it, but he wants her to be fine _now_.

"You got shot, don't apologize. Should I take it out?"

"Not until this is over. Don't," she adds, when he tries to protest. "I'm fine, Bellamy. If you leave the arrow in, it won't bleed as much. I've had worse."

"Thanks, that makes me feel better," he grumbles.

"It should." She lets out a breath. "You keep our people alive, I'll keep myself alive. I'm a healer, Bellamy, I know what I’m talking about." To his surprise, she finds his hand with her left one, the uninjured one, and squeezes it. "I'm fine. Get rid of the Scanrans."

His attention is only half on the battle, until Monty snaps, "Do you want to get shot too? Focus, Blake.” It’s the most annoyance he’s ever heard from Monty, and it’s enough to get his full attention back where it belongs.

But he's the one who carries her to the infirmary, and he's the one who pushes the arrow out of her. Monty's busy with the rest of the patients, so Bellamy takes Clarke, because she won't do anyone else any good until she's fixed herself.

It drains her gift, so he carries her back to her room too, makes sure she eats and gets into bed. It's not appropriate, maybe, not smart, but--he's going to keep her for as long as he has her.

"You should read something," she says.

"I usually do."

"Here," she says, muzzy. "You should read something here. I know you're not going to go check on everyone else like you should--"

"They're fine," he says. "Monty has them taken care of. Pike got a hit to the head, but those always bleed more than other cuts. Monty said he'd be fine. Harper was bandaging up everyone else, they don’t need much work. You got the worse hit."

"And I'm fine now." She wets her lips. "You were avoiding me."

"I wasn't. I see you all the time."

"You were avoiding being in here with me."

"You know what people will think, Clarke," he says, helpless. "What they'll say about--"

"They'll say it anyway." And then she winces. "Not about you, I guess. Sorry, I'm so used to it, I forgot--"

"No, it's--" He huffs, manages a smile. "Obviously, bedding a lady would do nothing but good for _my_ reputation."

"A lady knight," she says. She's falling asleep, he's pretty sure. "Everyone's bedded me, according to the gossip. It's harder to stay out of my bed, from what I understand."

"No one here thinks that, Clarke. Or they won’t for long. The Alph's Cove folk will realize you've earned your place."

"You have too," she says. "It isn't just that you're so pretty."

She doesn't know what she's saying; it doesn't mean anything. But she's smiling, and she's safe. "So, you want me to sit in here and read while you sleep," he says.

"Please."

He wouldn't know how to say no to her if he wanted to. "You better fall asleep fast," he says, and she's gone in no time, so he just sits by her bed, watching her.

It's going to go badly for him. It can't go any way but badly. But he's not giving her up.

*

The Alph's Cove people take longer to fit in than any of their previous refugees have, for all the reasons Bellamy said they would. They have fewer useful skills than the Mechdale crowd, and unlike Clarke, they don't have years of being a working squire to draw from. Because they don't know as much as the Mechdale refugees, Graham tries to argue that they should work less, but that's easy to shut down. She puts him in the stocks for implying Bellamy is warming her bed to get better treatment for his people, as she promised she would, and the rest of them stop supporting him soon after, begin distancing themselves.

Before that, it's nice to watch her people band together behind her, even in somewhat stupid ways. Both Murphy and Monroe get in fights with a few of the more obnoxious Alph's Cove people, and she has a little trouble keeping a straight face when she reprimands them. They _like her_ ; they're on her side. It’s a heady feeling.

She has four letters for Lord Marcus from Graham on her next visit to Fort Arcadia, and he reads them while she waits. 

"He says you're being inappropriate with one of the commoners."

"I'm not sure it's possible for me to talk to a man for more than five minutes without being accused of impropriety," she counters. "One of the commoners is a good leader who understands what his people need. He's been an invaluable resource, and anyone who doesn't recognize that is either stupid or willfully obtuse."

Lord Marcus looks like he's biting back on a smile. "As long as you aren't worried," he says. "Everything else is going well?"

Clarke shrugs. "As well as can be expected. We're a refugee camp. I think we're in good shape for attacks from humans; we've had a few injuries, but nothing Monty and I can't heal, and we can usually take care of just one killing device."

"You don't sound pleased."

Clarke hasn't ever told anyone that the Chamber of the Ordeal sent her a vision. She's never heard of it doing that to anyone else, and she stands out enough without having that distinction. But--she's meant to be doing something about the killing devices, and the knowledge makes her antsy. Even with no one else knowing, it feels as if she has a target painted on her, and it's on her people too.

"We know that Cage uses people to make those devices," she says. Their own mages have found out that much. "He's not using his own, so he's going to take ours. _Mine_."

"I know. I'm hoping to have another detail of soldiers for you next month. But--it's not just your people at risk, Clarke. Yours isn't the only camp, and it's not even the most vulnerable." His smile is wry. "And you have by far the best record of defending yourselves."

It should be a comfort, but as soon as she's back, she's raging to Bellamy.

"What do you mean, they need our people?" he asks, once she’s done.

It's always a surprise, remembering that Bellamy doesn't actually know all the things she knows. There's no one else she trusts over him, and he feels more like one of her people than anyone else ever has, but he's not a knight, and he's not privy to these matters.

Which just means she has to remember to tell him.

"The killing devices. They're made from--people. There's a mage working in Scanra, Cage. A necromancer. He's making those things from children."

Bellamy's jaw clenches. "Our children."

"I assume Scanra doesn't want him using theirs."

She watches as his mind works, but it doesn't click until he asks, "What do you mean, children?"

"What I said," she says, cautious.

"How old?"

Clarke sometimes thinks she should understand Bellamy and Octavia better. In a way, she has a lot in common with them. Her brother is much older than she is, and they only share one parent. But she had a father and mother who doted on her, at least until her father died, and Roan was already a page by the time she was born. Octavia is Bellamy's whole world in a way that's staggering to Clarke, and she can't believe she didn't think of it.

"I don't know," she admits. "Lincoln--one of our mages--he says the magic doesn't require children. That's just Cage's particular--inclination."

"Fuck," he says, rubbing his face. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," she admits. "What you're doing. Try to stay alive. Help Raven with the nets. Kill as many as we can."

"Tell O to lie about how old she is."

Clarke has to smile. "If anyone asks, yeah."

"And we'll get more soldiers in a month?"

"My lord hopes."

"Good for your lord," he grumbles. "I'd like a little better odds."

"So would I, but I'm not the one who needs convincing. If you'd like to write a formal complaint to my lord--"

That gets a smile out of him. "It worked on you, maybe it would work on him."

"You're very eloquent and persuasive."

"Thanks. It's doing me a lot of good."

"It's doing _me_ plenty of good," she says, and that does make him smile.

But she can see the shift in him. It's subtle, but the knowledge of what use Scanra puts their prisoners to clearly affects him. He stays closer to his sister for a few days, until she bristles, and he's reckless the next time they're attacked, taking stupid risks.

Clarke is stuck in the infirmary for hours, helping Monty with the wounded, and she's stewing the whole time. It doesn't help that not all of them make it--not through any fault of Bellamy's--so by the time she's leaving, she's worked herself into a mess of irritation and temper.

"You," she says.

Bellamy is helping a few of the younger children with their reading, and he looks surprised at Clarke's thunderous expression.

"Me," he agrees, mild.

"Come with me."

He follows her to her room, more than a little perplexed, and she waits until the door is closed to shout, "What were you thinking?"

She'd been a little worried she'd just kiss him, from sheer relief that he hadn't gotten himself killed, so she's glad that didn't happen. Yelling is much safer.

"Can you narrow that down?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You were stupid today. You were taking risks--"

"I was protecting our people. I'm not letting them take anyone to--"

"Neither am I, but I know I'll do everyone more good if I'm _alive_. If they're taking refugees, don't get yourself killed here before they've even got us. That’s idiotic."

"I wasn't--"

"You've always been doing your best to protect our people, Bellamy," she says, finding her temper fading. "Don't change that because you know what you're protecting them from. And don't get yourself killed unless it's _helping_."

He snorts. "Wow."

"You know what I mean," she says, but a smile is tugging at her mouth. "You do us much more good alive than dead. Unless that stops being true, don't die."

"I think you do better with rehearsed speeches. But--point taken." He lets out a breath. "I don't want one of those things taking Octavia. I don't want her turning into one."

"I know," says Clarke. "We won't let it."

He nods, but then his mouth twitches. "I've never actually seen you lose your temper before."

"Well, you've never done anything that stupid before. I thought I could count on you to be smart."

"Won't happen again," he says. "But it's nice of you to worry."

"Shut up, Bellamy."

*

They're in bad shape when the Queen's Riders show up a week later. 

"If those are Scanran reinforcements, just don't tell me," he tells Clarke, jerking his head to the new group. "I'd rather be surprised."

"Praise the goddess," she breathes, checking the group with her spyglass. "That's Lexa, and she's even got Lincoln."

"The mage?"

"The greatest mage in Tortall, if not the Eastern Realms." 

"So we're saved, and I can go take a nap."

"You're welcome to abandon your post any time you'd like, Master Blake. You don't have to go directly to the stocks if you do, but it would save me some time if you did."

He gives her a grin, and she manages one back. One of the soldiers, Shumway, has already been killed, and while Bellamy never liked the man, he didn't want him dead. And they still have an army and two killing devices to deal with.

But in the end, he probably could have left. The riders take out the men quickly and efficiently, the mage gets one of the killing devices. With only one to deal with, Bellamy and Clarke get their people together to take it out without much trouble.

He's grateful, right up until he sees the way the lead rider is looking at Clarke. And Clarke's clearly happy to see her too. It makes him feel like an outsider again, in a different way than the Alph's Cove people did. Clarke is friends with Monty and Nate, but--he knows now they share rooms for more than just practicality. She has no interest in either of them beyond friendship, and they have no interest in her.

"This is a dump," the rider tells Clarke, and pulls her into an embrace.

"Don't be rude, it's perfect," Clarke says, but she's smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"Passing through. We're bound for Fort Arcadia, escorting the mage. I was told you were on the way." Her eyes flick to Bellamy, her expression a little curious. "Lucky for you."

"Lucky for us." She smiles at him too, but he's aware that she's much closer to the rider than she is to him. "Bellamy, this is Lexa, Group Commander of the Eleventh Group of the Queen’s Riders. Lexa, Master Bellamy Blake. My second in command."

"Unofficially," he corrects, even as it makes him relax. He doesn't know who this rider is, but--he's Clarke's second.

"I'm in charge, and I say you are," Clarke says. "That's as official as it gets."

From her smile, she knows it's not true; if anything were to happen to her, gods forbid, Nate would take command, and after him, Monty. But they'd value Bellamy's input and help as much as she does, and that's something.

"A pleasure, Master Blake," says Lexa, but her focus is still on Clarke. It rankles him, because if she's a Queen's Rider, she could very well be lowborn herself. Many of her companions certainly must be. But it seems less like she doesn't respect him, and more like her primary concern is Clarke. Which rankles in another way all its own. "Lincoln says he still has enough gift left to improve your defenses, if you want him to."

"Of course I want him to." She glances at Bellamy. "Do you think I can wait a few minutes to help Lincoln, or should you do it and I go straight to the infirmary?"

"You do the magic, I'll do the infirmary. I don't have the gift, but I can do bandages well enough."

"No, you can't. I'm going to have to do them all again."

"Work on the defenses. You know more about it. I'll do exactly what Monty tells me to do, and when you're done, you can come and tell me what I'm doing wrong. I love when nobles explain things to me. It’s my favorite thing."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll see you soon."

The infirmary is busy, and Monty looks vaguely horrified when it's just Bellamy coming to help.

"Where's Clarke?"

"Apparently the mage is going to work on our defenses," he says. "I guess the Riders are leaving tomorrow so it needs to get done now." 

Monty huffs. "No, that's just Lexa. She always thinks what she's doing is more important than what anything else is doing. Clarke should have told her to wait, but--"

"But if there's a second wave, we'll want the defenses we can get. If they sent another killing device--"

"Yeah."

"So you get me for now," Bellamy says, giving Monty a wry smile. "And Clarke as soon as she's done."

"I'll take what I can get. Stop all the bleeding you can."

"Got it."

Bellamy doesn't know exactly what the mage does, but he feels it in his bones, an odd humming, something like a healing, but somehow coming from the earth itself. It makes all the hair on his neck stand on end.

"How good is he?" he asks Monty. "The mage."

"I can't explain it. He's that good. He's beyond words."

He wets his lips. "The riders must be pretty good too, if they're escorting him."

Monty snorts. "He doesn't need an escort. It's more likely they're just heading the same direction."

"It doesn't sound like you like them that much," he says, careful. "The riders, not the mage."

Monty flashes him a smile that says he knows exactly what Bellamy wants to know, fond and a little exasperated. "I'll gossip with you later, Blake. We've got work to do."

"I'm fine," Monroe protests, as Monty works his gift on her.

"Yeah, we're great," Bryan adds. "Keep gossiping."

"I'm going to bandage your mouth," Bellamy grumbles, but it makes him feel better.

It's not as if he didn't know Clarke might have a lover. More than one, even. They've never spoken about it, aside from Clarke's dismissal of all the rumors about her; it felt too dangerous to ask, because he thought it might start a conversation that he didn't want to have, one about Clarke's opinions on wedlock and sex. She's a noble; she'll marry a noble. If she takes commoners to bed for fun in the meantime, he doesn't want to be one of them, no matter how much he might enjoy it. 

It wouldn't be enough. He’ll never get enough for her and that’s--fine. It is what it is.

She shows up half an hour later, bumps her shoulder against Bellamy's. "You're so awful at this."

"And you're a bad carpenter. We all have our own strengths, my lady. Don't act like you're perfect."

"Just more perfect than you," she says. "Give me that bandage."

There are seven riders in total, and they sit with the other soldiers in the mess, which he can't object to. He isn't a soldier; of course he doesn't sit with them. He'd rather sit with his sister anyway.

But he's kind of periodically glaring at their table, so he probably should have just sat alone.

"Are you jealous?" Octavia demands.

"No."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"The mage is very handsome."

It hadn't even occurred to him, but when he gives the man another look, he supposes it's true. Maybe it's odd, that he's so much more threatened by the rider, given that he doesn't even know that Clarke likes women. But she was odd when she told him about Nate and Monty, more than he would have expected. He thought she might have some personal investment, and the way she and the rider commander are together makes him think he was right.

"Clarke thinks you might be a good fit for the riders," is what he tells his sister. "What do you think?"

She brightens. "Would you let me?"

"Why would I stop you?"

She doesn’t answer right away, just pokes at her meal. "Do you wish you'd enlisted in the army?"

"Not after this, no," he says. If anything, he wishes he'd been born a noble, but that's the kind of wish that's useless. Even more than wishing to change the past. "I don't think I'd be very happy as a soldier."

"What are you going to do?"

"When?"

She kicks him under the table. "When this is done. Don't tell me you're going to be happy going back to being a tailor. You've never been happy being a tailor, and now you know what it's like, being--" She shrugs. "Important."

"Maybe they'll let me join the riders too," he says, absent. 

"Have you asked Clarke about it?"

"Not yet." He smiles, wry. "I want to survive this war before I think about what I'm doing after it. But--you should join the riders, if you want. When you're old enough. You'd be good there."

"I'll see what you do," she says, with a stubbornness that makes him smile. She hates letting anyone tell her what to do, even if it’s what she wants to do in the first place.

At the end of the meal, he goes to Clarke without thinking about it, and only when he sees she's already talking to Lexa does he rethink it and change course to talk to Monty.

Monty smirks, and Nate raises his eyebrows. "Bellamy wants to gossip," Monty tells his lover.

"Yeah, that sounds like him."

"I just don't want to drink alone," he grumbles.

"Uh huh. Clarke, I assume you're busy entertaining?"

She looks torn. "I think so. You don't want to join us?" she asks Bellamy.

"Did you want me to?"

"It's up to you," she says. Her expression looks open and genuine, as if she really will be happy whatever he chooses.

He's being an idiot. Even if she does prefer Lexa's company in bed to his, it doesn't mean she doesn't care for him. He's her second in command.

"I want to get drunk with Nate and Monty,” he says, truthful. It sounds like a lot of fun. More fun than getting drunk with Clarke and strangers. “But let me know if you need me."

It's not his first time spending time with just the two other knights, and he does enjoy it. He was surprised when he realized he was friends with all of them, and plenty of the refugees too.

Octavia is right; it will be hard to go back to his old life after something like this.

"Clarke and I talked about--we both like men and women, and it was nice when we figured that out," Monty explains. "Like having an ally. I don't know exactly what happened with her and Lexa, but--I assume it's what you're thinking."

"Oh yeah, definitely," Nate says. "I'm surprised there weren't more rumors about it, but I guess people were happy to assume she was just fucking everyone in the King's Own. Too many rumors just gets confusing."

"No offense, but what's wrong with nobles?" Bellamy asks, and Nate grins.

"Everything."

"I don't think there's--it's not like they were really sweethearts," Monty says. "I don't think. Clarke's too practical for--" He cuts himself off, wincing.

It's cute, and he has to smile. "Yeah. She knows better than to get attached to someone she can’t possibly marry." And then, because it's not like they don't _know_ , he adds, "It's not like I'm getting my hopes up. I don't think anything's going to happen. I just don't enjoy seeing her taking lovers."

"So get drunk," says Nate, and Bellamy accepts the wine with a sardonic smile.

"Yeah," he says. "Sounds good."

*

Lexa ends up staying until Clarke's next trip to Arcadia, although Clarke assures her it's unnecessary. To tell the truth, it's a little strange having Lexa around. They've never been in battle together before, and haven't even really been friends. She likes Lexa, but they're very different, as leaders, and Lexa doesn't like Clarke's way of managing her people. She doesn't generally mind advice, but it rankles her a little, because she's doing _well_. And distancing herself from her charges like Lexa wants her to wouldn't help anything. They have a good little society worked out here, and just because Lexa thinks she could run it better doesn’t mean it’s right.

But it's nice too, having the riders around to provide backup. Especially because Bellamy is wary of them, and the rest of the refugees follow his lead. They don't let up in their training, not letting themselves get spoiled by having a group of trained warriors around. 

If she's honest, Bellamy's wariness is probably the worst part. He and Lexa circle each other like cats, not ready to fight but also not ready to make friends, aggressive without outright aggression. It doesn't surprise her, with how prickly they both are, but she'll still be relieved when the riders leave, and she wouldn't have expected to feel that way at all. She'd rather have a company of the Own any day.

If nothing else, it's good to have the escort to Arcadia, especially because they'll be able to leave more fighters at home. If everything goes according to plan, Clarke and Monty can trade the Riders with a new detail of soldiers, and they'll be back in two days.

"Do you need anything?" she asks Bellamy, lingering before she leaves. It feels like she hasn't gotten enough time with him the last few days, and it's getting harder to leave him behind, for all she feels better knowing one of them is in Haven to deal with any problems that arise.

"Does Arcadia have any books I haven't read yet?"

She smiles. "I don't know. I'll see if I can find any."

"Don't spend too long looking," he says, and then he ducks his head. "I'd rather just have you back."

"Me too." She worries her lip, and then reaches down to squeeze his hand, quick. It's strange to miss him before she's gone, but they've both been busy. "I'll see you in two days. Don't murder anyone while I'm gone."

"Not even if they deserve it?" he asks.

"Well, if they deserve it."

It's not until they've stopped for the midday meal that Lexa says, soft, so no one will her, "So, that was why."

"Hm?"

"The tailor. That's why you didn't want to revisit our--friendship."

"Oh. No. That's not--" She offers a smile. "You're not wrong about--how I feel about him. But I don't have time for that right now. Not with anyone. I'm protecting those people, not looking for someone to warm my bed."

"I never said you wanted a bed-warming," Lexa says, mild, and Clarke flushes.

"I'm busy."

"And you don't want me to stay."

She considers, but this is Lexa, and Lexa values honesty. "No, I don't. Which has nothing to do with bed-warming either. You're used to being in command, and so am I. I need people around who will listen to my orders, not ones who will tell me what I should be doing instead." She pauses, because that's not what the people she values most do. Bellamy and Nate and Monty are all happy to tell her when she's making mistakes. Bellamy _loves_ telling her what she should be doing. But it's different. "We don't work well together," she finally decides, because it's true. Bellamy's as good a leader as she is, better in some ways. He knows his people and what they need, and his strengths compliment hers. It's not that he's not in command; it's that it doesn't feel like she's competing with him. "It wouldn't be a good idea."

"I don't think you're wrong," Lexa says. "You're doing well with them. I'd hate the assignment."

"I thought I would too," she admits. "But it's important work."

"Better you than me," says Lexa, and they grin at each other. They might not make a great fighting team, Clarke thinks, but at least they make decent friends.

Lord Marcus has soldiers for her, but for the worst reasons: Fort Polis has fallen, and the refugees will have to be moved somewhere else.

"I don't think we can take them, unless we expand."

"I'm not planning to give them to you. Much as I wish you could take full command of all our refugees, I know you don't have the space. We'll move them farther from the border, where it should be safer."

"Not if there's no one to defend the border," Clarke grumbles, and Marcus flashes her a weary smile.

"Assume we're not completely incompetent. I know it's hard for you to believe."

"Not completely," Clarke says. "I just don't want to be the first line of defense about Scanra."

"None of us want that. But--you're doing well, Clarke. No one could do better."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Two companies of soldiers," he says. "And Monty is getting supplies."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Please tell me you have a letter for your mother, I think she's thinking of coming out here herself."

"I do," says Clarke, with a small smile. "I'll add a post-script telling her not to come."

"Appreciated. Not that we don't need healers, but--"

"I understand," she says. "Is there anything else, my lord?"

"No. Get a good meal and some sleep. I know you're anxious to be back."

She can't help a small smile. "Yes, my lord. Thank you."

She is anxious, though. She feels--different, somehow. Maybe it's just having spoken to someone about Bellamy, to have another person lay out plain what she already knew, that she wants him, and for more than just a quick tumble. But it's more than that, because she's wanted people before. Thinking so clearly about what he gives her, what she values in him--that's the difference.

Clarke's never had a partner, and now she does. And she misses him.

Her mother is going to be furious.

The trip back is slower, the soldiers' mounts not as quick as the Queen's Riders' ponies. Clarke keeps wanting to break away, to speed back to Haven, to arrive first and let everyone else catch up with her.

"He's not going anywhere," Monty tells her, amused, and Clarke gives him a sheepish grin.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Ordinarily I'd be polite, but--I can't believe you don't know. So yes, yes it is. It's exactly that obvious." He pauses. "Be careful with him. Don't--"

"I won't," she promises. "It's not--he's not going anywhere. Ever, if I have anything to say about it."

Monty snorts. "Your mother will be so pleased."

"Believe me, I know."

The first thing she notices is the empty fields, where there should be plowing. Then she sees the smoke, at the same time Monty notices it.

"Fuck," she says, and the both kick their horses to a gallop at the same time. There's a killing device dead on the gates, and the gates themselves are half destroyed. Clarke's heart stops, and she glances at Monty, sees the same expression on his face. This is bad. This is not a camp that bravely fended off an attack.

This is a camp that has fallen.

As always, Clarke feels her body go cold, calm and rationality taking over. She can panic later. She can cry. Now, there are things to do.

"We need to tell Lord Marcus," she tells Monty. "Can you go?"

"Me?"

"The soldier's horses are already worn out. Yours is used to longer hauls." She bites her lip. "I know you want to--"

Monty shakes his head. "No, you're right. They need to be told as soon as possible, and I'm the best one to do it."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I'll be back with reinforcements as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

The worst part of sending him away is that she has to go into the camp without him. She waits for the soldiers, in case there are still enemies alive inside, but it doesn't really feel like having allies at her back. They don't know any of these people, and she knows every one. It's always hard, to see bodies, but it's a distant kind of pain, when they're strangers.

These are Clarke's people.

It's important, so she's thorough. Each body she finds, she brings out, and the soldiers bring out more. There are two more dead killing devices, and Scanran soldiers too, some dead animals.

Each body she sees with dark hair, she nearly loses her control, until she sees it's not Bellamy.

None of them are Bellamy, and the more bodies she finds, the more she's sure none of them will be. The dead are mostly soldiers and fighters, not refugees. All of her people can fight, but the Scanrans have taken out the _obvious_ fighters, the ones with good armor and skills.

There are only about sixty bodies there, all told, all adults, and almost all trained fighters. 

"They took them," Clarke breathes.

It shouldn't be a surprise--she _knew_ Scanra wanted refugees. But somehow, she hadn't thought of them taking _her_ people, not when she saw the gates. She expected a massacre, not an exodus.

Bellamy knew, of course. And he remembered. He didn't let himself get killed, because it wouldn't have helped.

Nate isn't among the dead either; he comes back to camp just after Clarke has assembled the dead, with his own group of warriors.

"There was a diversion in the woods," he says. "A killing device. I think they expected us to fall to it, but--" He swallows hard, looks around. "Where's Monty?"

"On his way back to Arcadia to get Lord Marcus." She wets her lips. "They aren't dead, not most of them. They're on their way to Scanra." She works her jaw. "We have a lot of children. It's a lot of killing devices."

"Bellamy?" Nate asks.

"With the refugees, as far as I know. Not dead."

"Good."

"Maybe he'll get them out before we get there. There are a lot of them." She wets her lips. "I told him not to do anything stupid and get himself killed if it wouldn't help. I should have told him not to get himself killed even if it would help."

"Yeah, he wouldn't listen to that." Nate puts his hand on her shoulder. "We'll get them back, Clarke."

Her smile is tight. "Yes. We will."

*

"So, what's the plan?"

Bellamy likes Raven. She's smart, practical, and resourceful, as well as sarcastic and opinionated. Like most of his favorite people, she's willing to argue with him about everything and is more than capable of taking care of herself.

"Good question," he says. "Clarke said they want the kids. I'm pretty sure the rest of us are expendable."

" _You're_ expendable," Raven says, reflexive, and he snorts.

"That's what I'm saying, yeah." The children, including his sister, are being kept separately, and Bellamy's too aware of how easy it would be for the Scanrans to kill him and the rest of the adults. It would be quick, and they could take the children and move on. "For now? I think we're waiting."

"For what?"

"Clarke."

Her look is more calculating than he'd like. "You really think she's going to come?"

"Of course," he says. There's not a doubt in his mind.

"I know you like her, but she's still a noble. And a knight," she adds, when he's going to protest. "Which means if that if that lord of hers tells her not to come after us, she can't. And if you think the knight commander of the region is going to decide we're worth rescuing when he could just send Clarke to another camp--" She shakes her head. "Don't get me wrong, I like her too. But you know how nobles work. We're casualties of war at this point."

He does know how nobles work, and he even thinks she's right about Lord Marcus.

He just thinks she's wrong about Clarke.

"Bet you a silver coin she shows up."

"Like you've got a silver," Raven says, easy.

"I could have a silver." He wets his lips. "If we see a chance, we take it. But--right now, they're not interested in killing any of us. So we might as well wait for the chance, right?"

"You're the boss," she says. And then, "I hope she comes too. It would be nice if there was _one_ good noble."

"Three," he says, thinking of Nate and Monty. "She won't be coming alone."

Raven's not the only one to come to him. Part of him hates telling them to wait, especially hates telling them to wait on a noble, even if it is Clarke. But they have no equipment and the Scanrans have both weapons and horses. Any advantage they have in numbers is lost between their lack of resources and the number of them who _can't_ fight.

"I'm not throwing everyone's lives away on a pointless escape attempt," he tells Monroe. "We're only going to get one chance. We're picking the right one." He glance at her. "Tell everyone that. I'm not saying we have to wait for a rescue, but they aren't interested in killing us yet. If they start doing that, I'll reevaluate."

"You think the rescue's coming?"

"If she can, yeah."

They leave what they can on the road, a trail to make it clear this is them. Nothing big, nothing noticeable. Raven drops scraps of metal from her pockets. Bellamy carves letters into tree bark when they're sent to relieve themselves. Murphy uses his powers for good for once, managing to slow the Scanrans down with inconsequential annoyances without getting himself killed. 

The injured aren't so lucky; Bellamy might have made a rash decision, if he'd realized they were about to kill Mistress Oliver, whose leg was cut in the battle. As it was, he heard her scream and saw her body fall, and it was too late for him to do anything.

Two more die from lack of medical attention; Bellamy tells himself it wasn't worth getting himself killed to try to help them, but it's hard to feel good about it. It's not that his life matters more than theirs, but if he'd fought to get them cared for, he would have been killed too. It's not a happy thought, just a true one; it would have been two bodies instead of one. That’s the difference he would have made.

And Octavia is still alive and still needs rescuing.

When they stop for the night, the Scanrans put the children back in with the rest of the refugees, and he gets a chance to talk to his sister.

"They don't want to hurt us," she says, sounding disdainful. Trust his sister to be annoyed her life isn't in more immediate danger. "One of the little ones bit a guard and the leader killed the guard for slapping her. Which was stupid."

He has to grin. "Because you guys aren't giving them a moment's peace?"

"Not a second. If they kill everyone who gets mad at one of us, they’ll all be dead."

"Good." He worries his lip. "If any of the little kids want to cry in the middle of the night and wake everyone up, that wouldn't be bad."

"Way ahead of you." She bites her lip. "What's the plan?"

"Slow them down as much as we can without getting ourselves killed."

"Not escaping?"

"There are too many of them. We can't kill them all, and we can't outrun them. We don't have anywhere to go." He pauses, but she's old enough to know. "Clarke says--we're probably going to the mage who makes the killing devices. He uses kids for that. That's why they won't hurt you."

"What about you?"

"If they wanted to kill us, they already would have. They probably want us for workers or slaves or something. I'm hoping Clarke can get some men to come get us. If she can't--we won't fight until we're ready."

To his relief, Octavia doesn't ask if Clarke is really coming. The more he has to say it, the less true it feels.

"Just say the word," Octavia says. "Plenty of us can fight."

He tugs her close in the dark. They haven't shared sleeping space since their mother died, but it's cramped and, honestly, he's scared. He wants to keep her with him for as long as he can.

"They aren't going to know what hit them," she says.

He smiles. "Definitely not."

*

What it comes down to is this: Clarke can disobey her orders and commit treason, or she can let her people die. It's not a difficult decision, because the math is so simple: one life or four hundred. If she fails, the difference will be minimal, barely noticeable. If she succeeds, her people will live. She'll be hanged, but she won't be able to sleep, if she abandons them.

She understands why Lord Marcus can't give her troops. She even understands why he tells her not to go, to report back to him instead of sending her after them. But he doesn't see the equation the way she does; he weighs a noble's life differently.

And then there's the Chamber of the Ordeal. All knights face the Chamber; it's the final test of knighthood. Typically, a squire goes in and must spend the night in silence while the Chamber tries to break them. Some squires fail; some have even died in the chamber.

Clarke saw an array of horrors, nightmares she's had, and they were worse, they were horrible, but they weren't _real_.

And then the Chamber came to speak to her, a beautiful woman with dark hair, telling her she could help. That she would destroy the killing devices and their source. It showed her a vision of Cage in his workshop, and it told her she would go there.

Now seems like as good a time as any. 

Lord Marcus leaves her and a group of soldiers to bury the dead at Haven, and that's all the help she really needs. Any of the knights would know better than to let her out of their sight, but the soldiers don't know her. When she claims she hears something in the woods and needs to check it out, they trust her and let her go. She's a knight, after all, and a noble. Of course she knows what she's doing.

It's not something she wants to exploit often, but every now and then, it's necessary.

Clarke's not naive; she knows how hard it will be for her to save her people. But Bellamy is alive, and Raven and Monroe and Harper and Murphy. They're intelligent and capable and well-trained, and if she can just get to them and put weapons in their hands, they'll be fine.

If Bellamy just stays alive until she shows up, they can figure this out.

She spends the night in the ruins of Fort Polis, trying not to feel strange about it. The dead are buried, and she needs shelter.

In the morning, Nate and Monty are cooking breakfast, Jasper and Lexa are arguing about horses, and the rest of the Queen's Riders are looking over the fort, debating on if it's worth salvaging.

"Wells tried to come," Nate says, by way of greeting. "We told him there was no way they could let us go if he was with us, so he's staying."

"They're not going to let us go without him,” Clarke snaps. “This is treason, what are you thinking?"

"I'm a commander, I can do what I want," says Lexa. “It’s not treason for me.”

"They're our people too, Clarke," Monty says. "And you can't just storm into Scanra alone and expect to get everyone out."

"Well, you probably can," Nate grants. "But it's not a realistic expectation."

Clarke worries her lip. "I assume you've thought about the consequences."

"Have you?" Monty counters.

"Fine," she says. "Let's get going."

The worst part is being able to track the Scanrans by the bodies. There aren't many, but it's awful every time, and it's always awful in the same way. First, her stomach drops with the terror that this one might be Bellamy, and then there’s the sharp flood of relief when it's not, and finally the rush of guilt, because every body is still someone she knows, and she doesn't want _any_ of them to be dead.

All her people matter to her. They do. But if the Scanrans kill Bellamy, she's going to destroy every last one of them.

It's not just the bodies that tell them they're on the right track. She recognizes small pieces of metal from Raven, and Nate finds some carvings in trees that look like Bellamy left them. They're moving slowly, which is no surprise--Clarke doesn't know how many fighters the Scanrans have, but trying to move four-hundred uncooperative people on foot is difficult. And if Clarke knows her refugees, they're going to be insufferable. It's probably finally Murphy's time to shine.

It takes them two days and a difficult river-crossing to catch up; when they find fresh horse droppings that morning, she nearly faints with relief.

But they're far from done.

Tris, one of Lexa's youngest riders, goes to scout, reports that almost everyone is alive, and on foot. There are a hundred soldiers to four hundred refugees, and they're keeping the children separate from the rest of the group. There are probably enough soldiers they could take the children and ride ahead, if they needed to, and leave the refugees alone in enemy territory.

"So let's take out some riders," Nate says, and Clarke grins.

"Yeah, that's just what I was thinking."

She, Monty, Lexa, and the rider Aiden are the best shots with bows, so they're the ones who start going after the Scanrans. Clarke feels like she's starving as they speed ahead of the group, desperate to see with her own eyes that her people are there, that most of them are still alive.

It's a large, unruly group, but the Scanrans are easy targets, taller than everyone else and on horseback. She and Monty are on the left side of the road, Lexa and Aiden on the right, and Clarke doesn't let herself try to make out people. She knows who’s alive and who’s dead; she's seen the bodies. Bellamy's in there, and he'll know she's here once the Scanrans realize they're being attacked. Who else would possibly be coming to save them?

Eight of the Scanrans are in the back, monitoring the stragglers. If their aim is true, they should be able to take out the men in the rear without alerting the rest of the Scanrans.

Clarke fires the first shot, and they all wait a second to make sure it hasn't drawn attention. 

The seventh man makes a noise, but the leader of the Scanrans doesn't stop. A few men drop back to hold the end of the line, alert for arrows, but they don't bother stopping to check the woods, as Clarke thought they wouldn't. They'll want to get the children to Cage as soon as possible.

Monty gets one more of the warriors, for good measure, before they leave, and Clarke knows the refugees saw that the men went down.

They'll know they're not alone, and they'll do what they can to stop the Scanrans from their end. If everything goes as she hopes, Bellamy won't do anything stupid and self-sacrificial, and he'll make sure no one else does either. It feels a little overly optimistic, but--they all want the same thing, to get back home. 

"Eight down," Monty says. "Not a bad start."

"They're more afraid of Cage than they are of us," Clarke says. "That works for us."

"Couldn't you just agree with me?" he teases.

"Sorry," she says, giving him a grin. "Not a bad start at all."

*

"You owe me a silver," Bellamy tells Raven that night. The Scanrans have posted more guards at the outskirts of the group, which means it's easier for them to talk. Not that the Scanrans seem to care much about eavesdropping, but better safe than sorry.

"That could have been anyone," says Raven. He can see her grinning, even in the dark. "So, what's the plan now?"

"O's going to get the kids to cause more trouble," he says. "They're still our best asset. The Scanrans want them all alive, and I'm expecting them to kill Murphy just for pissing them off any day now."

"Hey, you haven't killed me yet, why would they?" Murphy asks.

"If you want to get out, stay toward the back," Bellamy continues to Raven, ignoring him. "If they're taking out men at the rear, we may be able to get some of our people out before the guards notice."

"You're not going?" Raven asks.

"I'm staying with the kids for as long as I can," he says. "You should go. You're good with traps."

"I'll see what I can do. Any messages for Clarke if I get out?"

It feels like a dangerous question. "Just tell her she better not get herself hanged for this," he says. "See if you can get Monroe to go with you, and maybe Bryan."

"You think she's alone?"

"No. So tell Monty and Nate not to get hanged either."

The next two days are somehow simultaneously boring, tedious, and stressful. Knowing Clarke is here and working for them makes him antsy, worried about letting any of their people die on his watch. He's already let enough bad things happen. He won't know how to face her if too much more happens.

Raven manages to get herself, Monroe, and a couple of the soldiers first thing in the morning, and Bellamy's glad, but he misses her too. But she's more useful with Clarke, and he remembers why on the second day, about an hour before dinner, which a mechanical bird perches on his shoulder.

Raven has the weirdest gift he's ever heard of, and he's sure that if she was a noble, or even born in Corus, she'd be rich and famous, but as it is, she's a small-town blacksmith, and she can do things with metal he didn't know were possible. She can forge things without fire.

The bird is small and made from little parts Raven dropped, plus an iron gauntlet and a ring. The ring he knows, recognizes from Clarke’s finger, and he was sure it was her, but the relief of _knowing_ is still absurd.

The bird tugs one of his curls with its beak and butts under his jaw, like it’s checking to make sure he's alive. Raven was too busy working against the killing devices to do little things like this in the camp, but she made things for Octavia back home sometimes, for the other kids. Toys. He knows this thing has some real magic in it.

"If I talk to you, does Raven hear me?" he asks, soft. It's small enough he thinks the Scanrans won't notice it. He's been sticking to the middle of the crowd, keeping his head down, letting his people come to him. None of them seem concerned that the refugees know anything about--anything.

They're so _sloppy_ ; it's honestly depressing that they managed to take Haven in the first place. If his people had had killing devices--

If they’d had killing devices, they'd be monsters too.

The bird nuzzles his jaw. "I don't know if that means yes,” he mutters. Talking to it at least makes him feel better. “We're fine. They've started holding kids with them on the horses, because they're assholes. I'm getting worried about the older refugees. Mbege is carrying Master Martin, but if they start slowing us down, the Scanrans are probably going to kill at least one of them. Maybe both." He glances at the bird. "If you can talk back, now's a good time to tell me."

The bird pecks his shoulder five times, and then flies off.

It comes back during dinner and taps his shoulder four times.

"You've got something on your face," Murphy tells him, and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

"It's just checking in on us."

An hour later, it comes back and taps his shoulder three times. An hour after that, they've settled in for the night, and it taps him twice. 

"Two hours," he tells Harper and Bryan. "Something is going to happen in two hours. Tell everyone. I'm gonna see if I can get to the kids."

Once Clarke started seriously posing a threat, the Scanrans stopped letting the kids mingle with the refugees at night. He assumes Clarke is counting on that; most of the Scanrans are with the children, and she can probably break a lot of the rest of them out. In two hours, they'll be asleep.

"I wanted to check on my sister," he tells the Scanran who stops him. "Octavia."

The man backhands him, and he's a lot bigger than Bellamy. He staggers and falls, and doesn't let himself fight back. He sees his sister, staring at him, and just gives her a smile. Clarke made everyone learn a few basic hand signs, just for practicality’s sake, and he signs, _all clear, Clarke_ , before the Scanran kicks him and tells him to go the fuck away.

"Good plan," Murphy says.

"Fuck you, just be ready."

The bird taps him once when he's pretending to be asleep, and then, an hour later, Clarke and Raven free the adults.

Honestly, if the Scanrans hadn't realized they should keep the kids apart, they would have freed everyone, but apparently they'd actually planned for this, figured out what to do if they were assaulted in the middle of the night. They don't even try to fight; they mount their horses, pull children onto the saddle with them, and run, leaving the rest of the refugees dealing with the same problem they themselves had before: a huge number of slow-moving people.

"Fuck," he says, watching the horses speed off. But he doesn't follow them, because--it's not the best way to help. A one-man suicide mission to try to chase his sister down on foot is fucking _stupid_. 

He's still watching them go when he hears, " _Bellamy_!" and turns just in time for Clarke to hurl herself into his arms.

He doesn't exactly catch her, but once he realizes she's there, he lets himself hold onto her, wrapping her up and not letting go. It's only been a few days, not even a week, but he was fucking _worried_.

"No reason to let myself get killed yet," he tells her hair. "Are you going to get hanged for treason?"

"Probably, yeah. But this is a good reason for me to get myself killed. Once we're done." 

She hasn't let him go yet, so he strokes her back, smells her hair, lets himself be so fucking close to her. "I bet we can get you out of it," he says. "If we can rescue those kids, we can keep a few knights alive."

"Yeah," she says. Her breath shudders, and she squeezes him once more before she slides out of his arms. Her smile is tired, and he's never been happier to see anyone in his entire life. "We should be leaders now, right? I just--I was so worried about you."

"We're fine," he says. "Most of us, anyway."

She catches her lip in her teeth, flushing a little. "I know. I was worried about _you_. Every time we saw a body I thought--" She shakes her head, just a little, like she's remembering. "I don't know what I would have done if they killed you."

"Oh," he breathes, once he's cleared the lump from his throat. He glances around, but no one is paying attention to them. Monty is checking injuries, and Raven and Nate are consulting with Harper Monroe. The Queen's Riders are around too, a larger group than he expected. "You got a lot of people to commit treason."

"They committed treason all by themselves." She wets her lips. "They weren't hurting the kids, right?"

"Not yet."

She nods. "I guess that won't happen until they get to Cage. I think we should split the group. All these people are going to slow us down, and most of them are non combatants. Bring the younger people who can fight, move as quickly as we can."

"Yeah." She's still close, so he lets himself rub her arm, quick, friendly comfort. "We should sleep first, though. At least for a few hours. They'll get a head-start, but--they'll need sleep too, and the kids are going to fight them every step. So--"

"Sleep," she agrees. Her smile is watery, relieved, and perfect. "Gods, I'm glad you're back."

"Me too." He hesitates, and then hugs her once more, quick; she doesn't seem to mind at all. "Okay, time to rally the troops."

"Or not rally," she says. She bumps her shoulder against his. "Sleep is the opposite of rallying."

"Never mind, I'm not glad I'm back," he tells her, and she just smiles. "Okay, listen up!" he calls, louder than she is, better at getting their attention, and all their people turn to face them at once.

Just like it should be.

*

When Clarke wakes up, the first thing she sees is Bellamy, just waking up himself, hair falling in his face, and her heart lurches with how much it helps. They're far from done; the still have to get the children out and get themselves back to Tortall, but he's alive and he's here and even if she doesn't survive this, he will. She’s going to make sure of that.

Raven's mechanical bird is still trilling, and Bellamy groans and flicks it, shutting it up. And then he offers her a smile. "Time to wake up, I guess."

"It's not even light out."

"Nobles. So spoiled."

"I'm always awake before you."

"So stop complaining."

She grins and he grins back, and it's not _safe_ , it's not over, but it feels so much more achievable, now that Bellamy is here. Whatever happens, they're going to do this.

"Okay, let's get everyone else up," Clarke says, and they do, moving as a team, dividing up people who definitely won't come and people who will. Nate and some of the surviving soldiers will take most of the group back, and the rest of them will continue on to get the children from Cage. One of Lexa's Riders, Nyko, has the gift with horses and managed to bring a number of Scanran horses to their side, so they should be able to move quickly, if there aren't too many of them.

"But then we get there and there aren't too many of us," Bellamy points out.

"We were never going to win this with numbers," Clarke says. "We're smarter than they are. That's what we have."

"They're sloppy, too," Bellamy says. "And they don't give a shit about their people."

"So we've got that going for us."

"We've got that." He considers. "If you and Monty and that squire go back, will they not hang you? The Queen's Riders are their own unit, they can make their own decisions--"

"We're not going back without them, Bellamy."

"I figured it was worth a shot," he says. "Just once. I'm done. Let's get going."

He's a bad rider, and they don't have enough horses anyway, so Clarke just tells him to get on behind her. Her warhorse has always been too big for her, and while they can't ride like this forever, it shouldn't be bad for a day or two. Bellamy's strong without being big, and, if she's honest, she feels better having him close enough to touch. 

She still has trouble believing he's here at all.

"You have any idea what we're riding into?" he asks. He's got one big arm around her, and she wishes she wasn't wearing armor so she could feel the warmth of him.

"Not a great one."

There's a pause, and then he says, "How do you know anything about him?"

She's never told anyone about the Chamber, because knights can't speak of their ordeals. But the mission wasn't a part of the ordeal; she hasn't told anyone about it because she didn't think they'd believe her.

"How much do you know about knighthood?"

"Almost nothing."

"The final test is called the Chamber of the Ordeal."

"Yeah, I've heard a little about that. Sounds terrible."

She smiles. "It is. Mine was--different, I guess."

"Because you're so special."

"Because I'm so special. It gave me a quest. It told me I was going to stop Cage."

"Did it tell you how?"

"It's not really that kind of supernatural entity."

"Figured it was worth a try." They're quiet again, and then he says, soft, "We're going to get her, right?"

"If it's the last thing I do."

His arm around her waist tightens, even through the armor. "Any time you want to stop talking like you're about to die, that would be great." And then he adds, soft, "I'm not going to let that happen, Clarke."

"I believe you," she says, and she does.

He'll do everything he can, and she just hopes he won't get himself hanged alongside her.

The Scanran country is barren and deserted; apparently plenty of their people have had to leave their homes too. It makes Clarke sick; the first unified king of Scanra, and he's waging a war to keep his lords happy while his commoners starve.

Taking Cage out isn't going to end the war. It's not going to win everything for Tortall. But it's going to even the field like nothing else Clarke can do, because no one should have the kind of advantage that those machines gives them. And no one should act like Cage and the Scanran king have acted.

No one should kill children and turn them into monsters.

They're not the only ones who think so, apparently; the Scanrans take the children to a keep, with a town next to it that's still inhabited. The people are gaunt, hollow-eyed and hungry, living in fear of the man in the mountain, as they call him. 

"He took our children first," says one woman, and Bellamy and Clarke exchange a look.

"Can you get us in?" he asks.

"I can," says a girl. She's old enough she's probably feared for her life, Clarke's age. "My father worked there, until Cage found out he was trying to make it less painful for the children. He told me how to get in before he--" She looks away. "Just in case."

"It's good that he did," Bellamy says, voice gentle. He squeezes her shoulder, smiles. "What's your name?"

"Maya."

"Thank you, Maya. And thanks to your father."

"We have to wait for nightfall," she says. 

"Good," says Clarke. "That gives us time to plan."

"Night's better anyway," Bellamy points out. "They'll be asleep. We'll have the advantage. And they probably think they're safe, in a stronghold like that."

He and Clarke take command of the preparations without anyone objecting, everyone nodding as they outline responsibilities. Get weapons, get the guards, get the kids out.

She doesn't mention Cage, and she's not sure why she thinks Bellamy wouldn't notice, except that she's hoping so hard.

"What are you going to do?" he asks her, arms crossed over his chest as she washes her face. They're trying to get a little sleep before they go in.

"I just told you."

"Clarke. I know you've got a mission from the Chamber. What's the plan?"

"You get the kids out. I kill Cage."

"Monty and Jasper can get the kids. Lexa too." He looks away from her. "I told her to take O to the Riders. If anything happened to me. She said they could keep her busy until she turns fifteen. I'm coming with you."

"Bellamy--"

"It never said you had to go alone, right?"

"I think it's implied." She works her jaw. "If they need help getting the kids out, you should do it."

"If we don't deal with Cage, he's going to keep being a problem. He'll come back for the kids. So I'm coming with you."

"If it's me or Octavia--"

"Then I'll figure it out." He offers her half a smile. "You think I'm going to let some noble hog all the glory?"

She has to laugh. "When you put it like that, of course not." It takes everything in her to force the words out. "I'll bring you with me if I can."

"You better." His smile is fond and gentle, and for a wild second, she wants to ask him to stay, to just climb into her bedroll with her. But it feels like something that should wait until they can really talk about it. "Get some sleep, Clarke," he says.

She smiles back. "I will. You should too."

*

Bellamy hasn't ever laid siege to a castle before. Of course, before he came to Haven, he'd never defended a fort either, and he's decent at that. But he’s not used to being on the offensive, and he expects it to be harder. But Maya gets them in, and then it’s a lot of sneaking around, of using every advantage they have, the unpreparedness of their enemy, the enmity of the keep’s servants.

The most surprising thing is that he never really thinks about their failing. Maybe it's because if they fail, his life is basically over, so it's not worth thinking about. If he doesn't save his sister, if he and Clarke don't do this--well, he's never understood the phrase _or die trying_ like he does now.

Clarke leads the attack on the soldiers, and Maya takes Bellamy to the kids. Octavia and some of the older ones stay to fight, and Bellamy wants to stop them, but it's not like they'll be safe if the rest of them let the soldiers live. And his sister is pretty good with a spear.

The battle is hard, but fast, and Clarke makes sure Monty has the healing covered before she catches his eye.

"You don't have to come," she tells him.

"Uh huh."

"It's my--"

"You're not doing this alone."

She looks him over, critical. "Let me bandage your arm."

"What about yours?"

"Mine's fine."

"This is why you're not going alone." But he gives her his arm anyway; she's not going to let . "If he's not coming to kill us yet, he's probably not going to. We might as well make sure we’re ready for it."

"I've been having nightmares since the ordeal," Clarke admits, voice soft. "Nightmares about finding him."

"So it would be stupid to get killed because you didn't bandage up your arm before you went to fight him," he tells her, and she smiles and lets him bandage her arm too. “No one wants to fuck up their prophesy like that.”

After everything, Cage himself is honestly--not a _let down_ , not exactly, but it's strange to find that someone like that is just a _person_ , just some asshole, nothing that distinguishes him from Graham or Tristan or anyone else Bellamy has ever disagreed with except that he has this awful power, this gift that lets him turn bones and metal and human souls into machines that murder.

It's Clarke that kills him, of course, because it was Clarke's destiny or something. Bellamy doesn't care which of them does it, so long as it gets done and they both live. He gets a gash on his head that looks worse than it is in the fight, which would have been fine, except that Clarke is too tired and too hurt herself to realize it's not really much of a wound, uses all her gift patching him up and knocks herself out.

"Mithros," he mutters, gathering her up in his arms. "At least you waited until after you killed the guy."

Monty patches her up as best he can, but apparently all she really needs is rest.

"Can she get it on a horse?" Bellamy asks. This part of the plan was clear: they leave as soon as possible. They're still in enemy territory, and they need to get out.

"I assume you're still riding with her?"

"I still can't ride for shit, so yeah. Better than going alone. You're going back?" he adds, asking Monty, but looking at Clarke. "Do you think--" He swallows. "I could take her--somewhere. If you think you're going to--"

"I don't think they'll hang us," Monty says. "If nothing else, it's a war. They can't afford to kill three knights and a squire when the Scanrans are killing us anyway. Not until the war is over."

"You're giving nobles more credit than they deserve," he grumbles.

Monty just looks at him for a long minute and then says, "She wouldn't thank you for taking her away. She did this knowing the risks, and she'll face them."

"Yeah," he says, with a heavy sigh. "That sounds like her."

Clarke says as much when she's conscious, although that doesn’t last long. She and Monty keep using their gift when they're stopped for the night, healing up the wounded and making sure everyone is in one piece.

"We're going to sleep for a week," she tells him, half asleep and right against his neck, and he shivers at the way she says _we_. It doesn’t sound like she means herself and Monty.

Nate's waiting for them at the Tortall border, along with some other knights he doesn't know. Clarke's asleep again, slumped back against him, and he hates the knights looking at him, like they're wondering who he is and what he's doing holding someone like her.

"Hey," he murmurs, and nudges her awake. "Time to not get hanged."

She straightens to attention instantly, manages to properly greet--he assumes--her commander. She confirms it when she says, "Lord Marcus."

"Clarke. Your mother is going to murder me."

"I apologize, sir."

He sighs. "Come back to Arcadia, all of you. The rest of your people are there. And it looks like you could use some more healing."

Clarke and Monty exchange a look. "We've been using our gift every night," she says. "We've done everything we could."

"Of that, I have no doubt." He pauses, looks between Clarke, Monty, and Jasper. "I'm very glad to have the three of you back. Don't worry that I'm going to kill you myself, after all that. The mistake was mine."

It's late by the time they make it to Arcadia, and Bellamy can't help noticing how much nicer the camp is than theirs ever was. Larger, better fortified, with more men and more resources.

When he says as much to Clarke, she wakes up enough to say, "Sorry you got sent to the worse refugee camp," and he lets out a surprised laugh.

"Yeah, don't worry. I wouldn't have wanted to go anywhere else."

Lord Marcus asks her and the other knights to join him in his office, and Bellamy is left alone. He and Octavia go to get food, and he's told where he can sleep, a room with a bed of his own, quite a luxury.

Instead, he asks where the Knight Commander's office is and goes to wait.

"We're not getting hanged," Nate says. He’s sitting on the ground by the door, absently playing with his boot knife. "He said good commanders don't give orders they know won't be obeyed. And then he said he needed to talk to Clarke in private."

"And you're waiting around because you're not worried."

"I already had to drag Monty back to a bed. They're drained. I was going to take Clarke back too, but if you're here, I assume you can do it."

Before he can respond, the door opens, and Clarke is saying, "Thank you, my lord." She sees him and brightens. "This is him."

"I see," says Lord Marcus. He looks Bellamy up and down. "It's getting late. Report to me after breakfast tomorrow, Master Blake."

"My lord?"

"Nothing bad," Clarke says. "No one's getting hanged."

"Oh good." He looks back at Lord Marcus to say--something, but the door is already closed, so he turns his attention back to Clarke. "Where are you sleeping? I assume you don't have to go to the barracks."

"I'll show you," Nate says, and Bellamy wraps his arm around Clarke, mostly to keep her upright. She really _should_ sleep for a week, honestly. But she's a knight and it's a war; she's not going to get that much of a break.

She doesn't let go of him once they get to her room; if anything, her hold on him tightens.

"You need sleep," he says. "Seriously, you--"

"Stay."

He swallows hard. It's not entirely a surprising request; it's obvious she cares for him. They've been far closer than any propriety would allow, these last few days. He hasn't actually shared a bedroll with her, but it's come close.

But they're back in Tortall, back in their own realm. So they should stop.

"Clarke--"

"Please," she says.

If he were a little more awake and she was a little less warm and sleepy and Clarke, he'd probably be able to say no. But he's not, and she is, and he can't deny how much he wants to wrap her up in his arms and never let go.

"You're sure?" he asks.

Her smile is soft as she tugs him toward her bed. "We're just sleeping, Bellamy."

"It doesn't matter what we actually do, just what everyone thinks we did."

"Everyone already thinks that. This won't make it worse. And I don't care."

"I care," he says, and nearly loses his train of thought when she starts stripping out of her clothes. She goes down to her breast band and loincloth before she pulls on a nightshirt, and even that's a lot of bare, smooth skin. "I want everyone to think I'm bedding a noble," he manages, once he's swallowed a few times.

"Mission accomplished. You don't sleep in that, do you?"

He tugs off his boots, loses his shirt and trousers. It still feels huge, to slide into her bed with her, but all his doubts die when she wraps her arms around him, snuggling into his side.

"You are going to bed a noble, you know," she adds, pressing her lips against his collarbone.

He swallows hard, keeps his voice light. "I think I am now."

"You know what I meant."

It's more than he can wrap his mind around this late in the night, and, honestly, he doesn't know how to tell her he can't bed her, if that's all she wants. He doesn't think it is, either, which is as surprising as anything. There are nobles who fuck commoners and leave them, and Clarke isn't like that. She doesn't want him like that.

"Go to sleep, Clarke," he says instead, and she does.

It takes him longer, but he doesn't mind. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

*

Waking up with Bellamy actually all wrapped around her is even better than waking up across from him. Clarke doesn't even want to open her eyes; she just burrows closer into his bare chest, breathing him in. 

"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep.

"Good morning. Lord Marcus has assigned me to find a site for a new refugee camp, build it, and take command there. As punishment for my disobeying his orders."

"Sounds awful."

"I told him that I thought it was a bad idea to have only a military commander. Towns have headmen. I don't see why a refugee camp wouldn't." She nuzzles his neck, feels her breath catch when it makes him shiver and pull her closer. "That's why he wants to see you. I told him you deserved an official title."

"And he's giving me one?"

"You've earned it."

His thumb strokes her shoulder blade, and it's her turn to shiver. "It's not a title," he says. "Not the kind of title I'd--" She feels his lips press against her hair. "We need to talk about this."

She props herself on his chest and actually looks at him, which is a huge mistake. His curls are even messier than usual, his eyes are soft, and she can see every one of his freckles. She loves him; she knows she loves him. She's know for weeks, but--she can't not have him, after everything. 

"Or I could kiss you," she says, and he actually looks alarmed. Like he didn't think she'd want to, somehow. 

"We definitely need to talk about that." He wets his lips, making everything worse, and still doesn't speak for a few beats. "I don't think--I know you're not just looking for company. But I can't--"

She does lean in and press her lips to his then, soft, and just for a second. His mouth is rough and warm, and he tastes like sleep. She's going to kiss him so much more. "I love you," she tells him. "I love you, and if my family decides I can't marry you, then--I don't know. I'll marry you anyway. Or we won't get married. But I'm not going to marry anyone else."

He stares at her for a minute, wide-eyed with shock. "You know," he finally says. "I heard there was something wrong with any lady who wanted to be a knight, but this is the first evidence I've seen of it."

It's on the tip of her tongue to object, because he's seen her do plenty of stranger things than this, over the last few months. But then his hand slides into her hair and he tugs his mouth back to his, kissing her long and deep, kissing her until she's boneless, practically melted into him.

"I love you too," he says. "But I think I'm supposed to eat and meet with the knight commander, so I can't further compromise your virtue yet."

She laughs, tucking her face against his neck, giddy with excitement. "How compromised do you think my virtue is?"

"No idea. But I plan to compromise it completely." She feels his neck bob as he swallows. "Which--you won’t have any reputation left, Clarke.”

"I don't care."

"You might."

She pulls back and grins at him. "First, I love you. Second, I became a lady knight because I didn't want to marry anyone who wouldn't want someone like me for a wife. Third, I think my family has given up on me. Fourth, I don't care about marriage anyway. Fifth, my best friend is going to be king someday, so if you're so worried about not having a title, I'm sure he can arrange one. Sixth--"

He laughs and turns his head so he can kiss her again. "If we start sharing a bed, everyone will know. That's all I meant."

If not for the undercurrent of tension in his chest, she might agree with him. And if she wasn't already used to waking up with him, if she didn't already like sharing his bed so much. 

"I know," she says. "I still don't care." She presses a final kiss to his mouth and rolls off him. "Come on, let's get breakfast so you can go talk to Lord Marcus. I want to get on the road before midday."

"I thought you were going to sleep for a week," he teases, but he's getting out of bed too, finding his clothing. Clarke gets only a little distracted watching the play of muscles on his back as he moves.

"I'll sleep when the war is over," she tells him. "For now, we have work to do."

*

The first group of new refugees arrives three days after they've completed construction on the new camp, and for the first time, Bellamy stands next to Clarke to greet them, acting in his official capacity as headman of New Hope. It's more than a little surreal, listening to Clarke give a much shortened speech, introducing herself and Nate and Monty, explaining their duties, and the simply saying, "For work, lodging, and any other day-to-day complaints, you can take your concerns to Master Bellamy Blake, our headman."

If any of the new refugees know he's a bastard tailor of no account, they don't mention it. He heard some grumbling from the Alph's Cove people about his new position, the renewed belief that the only reason Clarke likes him so much is that he's fucking her every night, but it came from Lord Marcus himself, and no one can argue with that.

Besides, he's not, in point of fact, fucking her every night, because they only just finished construction on her private room, and he wasn't going to spend the night with her in the barracks. There's obvious and then there's _obvious_.

They've managed to find enough privacy a few times, quick and desperate, when everyone else is busy, but he's looking forward to getting to spend nights with her, to spending hours learning her body.

He's looking forward to getting used to that, too, to not feeling as if he's getting away with something every time he kisses her, every time someone reminds him he has authority now. Because--Clarke didn't tell Lord Marcus to make him headman because he's fucking her. He didn't earn any of this on his back. He’s good at this sort of thing, and that’s what made her love him in the first place.

He didn't know there were nobles like her; maybe there aren't. Maybe she's the only one.

"Master Blake?" she prompts.

He stands, and she sits. He has a seat at the officers' table now, too. The one right next to her. "Welcome to New Hope," he says. "As the lady knight said, she'll be keeping you safe, and I'll be keeping you fed. This is a working camp. It's how we survive. If you've never held a hammer, we'll teach you. If you don't know how to cook, you'll learn. After the meal, we'll have duty lists for you to add yourselves to. If there's something you're terrible at, we'll accommodate you. I've never met a worse carpenter than Lady Clarke here--"

"But I can drink you under the table," Clarke interjects, and that gets a laugh from the group.

"Which is, unfortunately, not one of the duties you can sign up for. Sorry, my lady." He turns his attention back to the group. "As I said, not everyone is good at everything. Now, I won’t have anyone abusing this--I won't believe you if you tell me you're allergic to the latrine. But if you have a talent, I want to know about it. If you know how to use a weapon, don't hide it. If you want to learn something, just tell us." He smiles. "I know this isn't where anyone wanted to be, but--it's not a bad place. And we're going to make it a better one. So anything any of us can do, let us know. That's why we're here."

He feels pretty good about the little speech, and then Murphy says, "Shit, Blake, you're going to make me cry," and somehow that makes him feel even better.

"That's Murphy. Everyone has official permission to not listen to a word he says. And that's all we've got to say, so--enjoy your meals, and I look forward to meeting you all."

It's late by the time he finishes with the duty lists, and he nearly goes back to his barrack out of habit before he remembers Clarke is moved into her rooms and he could be there instead.

He passes Monty, who just smiles at him, unconcerned, and feels a lurch of gratitude for these nobles too. It's not just Clarke, it's all of them. They all treat him like one of their own.

She's sitting at her desk when he lets himself in, working on a letter. When he leans down to kiss her neck, she sighs, tilts her head so he can comfortably rest his chin on her shoulder.

"I'm telling my mother I'm marrying you," she says. "In a few years, when the war is over."

"In a letter?"

"I can't go home to tell her, and I think she'd rather hear it directly from me. I'm sure she's already heard some rumors that are concerning her. Better to just be honest."

"Now I feel better." He kisses her jaw and then flops down in her bed, which is bigger and nicer than the one he has in the barracks. And she's going to be in it, of course. "Do you think she'll come here?"

"Or she'll try to send my brother to scare you off. He might be closer, but he also won't care, so that won't work for her. He'll be happy to meet you. I think you'll--" She pauses. "I think he'll like you. I'm not sure you'll like him."

"As long as he doesn't challenge me to a duel. Isn’t that what nobles do? I don't want to duel anyone. It sounds terrible. I’d just give up on marrying you."

Clarke puts down her pen and comes over to curl herself around him, pressing her lips against his shoulder. She loves kissing his shoulder, for some reason; he likes it because her head is positioned just right for him to kiss her hair.

Octavia says they're disgusting, and she doesn't even know the half of it.

"If he duels anyone, it's going to be me. My mother will just try to pay you off. In which case you should take the money, and then marry me anyway. She won't be able to object. You'll be rich."

"I'm glad you've put so much thought into this."

"I'm going to marry you, Bellamy Blake," she says, settling in closer. "Just you wait."

"I wouldn't ever bet against you, my lady," he tells her. And then, he adds, "I'm looking forward to it," because it doesn't feel dangerous, to believe that it really will work out for them, one way or another. She wants him, and nobles are used to getting what they want. "We just have to survive the war first."

"I wouldn't bet against either of us. We're going to be fine."

He lets himself believe that too, lets himself think that he and Clarke and Octavia are all going to survive this war, that they're going to be fine. That she'll be able to marry him, and they'll be--he doesn't know what they'll be. 

Partners. They'll be partners. Whatever else they do.

"Yeah," he says. "We are."


End file.
